Under the Law
by Colt-and-Crossbow
Summary: When Rick Grimes walks into the station with the report of having a Dixon in custody, he expects to see his town's most infamous criminal, Merle Dixon. So it's a shock when he hears it's Merle's kid brother, Daryl, waiting in the next room. (An AU Rickyl fanfiction).
1. Chapter 1

Rick came home with a grin on his face, Shane following him, his boots landing heavily on the carpeted area of the foyer. Today marked their last day at the police academy. Now, they were officially police officers of their small Georgian town—of the most junior standing, of course, but this had been a long-held dream of theirs since freshman year. Neither of them could stop laughing at their own half-formed jokes, and soon, Rick's little sister, Hazel, came barreling down the stairs.

"Ricky!" she squealed as she launched herself at him. Instinctively, the man caught the six-year-old and swung her up into his arms.

"What's going on, sweetheart? Huh? Shouldn't you be asleep?" Rick asked, quick to put her on top of his shoulders, just as she liked.

"Mommy said I could stay up until you got back," the little one said triumphantly. She buried her fingers in his hair, the curls becoming reins. Rick wasn't about to fight her, lest his shiny dark locks get tugged out of his scalp entirely.

"Didn't have nothin' to do with you wanting to see your favorite big brother, Shane, did it, now?" Shane swiped Hazel off of Rick's shoulders, tickling her as he cradled her in his arms. She let out a high pitched squeal, wriggling to get away.

"Aw, c'mon, you know I'm your real brother, don'tcha, Hazel?" Rick let a false plea color his voice. His bright blue eyes widened beseechingly.

"Who cares? She knows I'm better."

The two continued to bicker good-naturedly until their unrestrained laughter seemed to alert the other occupant of the house.

"Is that you, Rick?" a female voice called from the upstairs.

"Yeah, Ma, it's me." He gestured to Shane as his mother came running down to meet them. "Brought this bum with me, too. Figured we could get him a meal, at least, before sendin' him back out on the streets."

"Aw, fuck you, man."

"You watch your mouth," Rick's mother admonished, but she wore a smile. "What has you two so happy, huh?"

Rick groaned. "Mama, did you forget?" He shook his head at his mother's blank expression. "It's all I been talkin' about these past few weeks! You can't tell me you forgot."

"Now, Rick, stop your silliness and tell your ma what's goin' on. I got some iced tea ready for all y'all inside."

The new cop slumped his shoulders, not quite believing that his mother didn't remember that today was his graduation date from the police academy. Hell, he'd been running around with Shane playing cops and robbers ever since he was able to walk. This wasn't something he thought anyone'd forget—especially not his mother. But he followed her anyway, the promise of iced tea too appealing to his somewhat-chafed throat from all his laughing and yelling with Shane and his other graduate friends. Shane seemed to sense his disappointment. He clapped him on the shoulder with a crooked smile, mouthing something that resembled the word, _women. _Rick stifled a laugh, not wanting to have to explain to his ma what he was so funny.

"Rick? What's keepin' you? Get in here!"

The man rolled his eyes, but he started walking with Shane's arm slung over his shoulders, while his friend's other arm was occupied carrying Hazel, who was jabbering excitedly about nothing in particular. When he finally joined his mother in the kitchen, the first thing his eyes were drawn to was the table.

On it sat a cake, large and round and covered with light blue whipped cream from the looks of it. Green frosting formed the loopy letters spelling out the words, "Congratulations, Sheriff Rick". Underneath the main text was a sloppy addition, hardly legible, saying, "and friend". Rick had to hide loud laughter at that, looking at Shane.

"Hiya, friend," he mocked, reaching up and messing up the man's hair playfully.

"Aw, shut up, man. She obviously didn't wanna make it too obvious that she likes me more than you," Shane retorted, looking at Rick's mother, who was standing with a dish towel slung over her shoulder.

"You really think I'd forget when my son was gonna graduate from the Academy?" she asked, her voice feigning hurt. But her eyes told differently, their green depths shining brightly with pride.

"Mama, I. . ." Rick was at a loss for words, tears pricking at his eyes. He wanted to kick himself for thinking that she would forget, but his ma was a damn good actress when she wanted to be.

"What he's tryin' to say is," Shane interjected roughly, "that looks fantastic, Mrs. Grimes."

Rick didn't say anything. Instead, he broke free of Shane's arm and hugged his mom, enveloping her tiny frame in his arms. "Thanks, Ma. This is. . ."

His mother hugged him back fiercely before pushing back and cupping his face in both of her hands. ". . . what a mother does for her boy when he does somethin' special," she finished for him, reaching up on her tip-toes to kiss his forehead. "I just wish your father coulda been here to see this."

Rick's expression fell, all joy from his graduation and the cake and his family fleeing in a split second. He wanted to get angry at his mother for mentioning him. She knew how hard this topic was for him, and she chose to bring it up today of all days. But as he looked into her eyes, he felt his anger dissipate as quickly as it'd come. Only to be replaced with unbearable sadness that made his throat feel tight and put pressure behind his eyes.

"Yeah, me, too," he whispered, looking down as he fought back the tears in his eyes.

"Let's have us some cake!" Shane suddenly said, but the false cheer in his voice was just too obvious to do anything for the sudden melancholy in the air.

"Oh, yes," his mother responded, her warm hands leaving Rick's thin face. "That's what I made it for, didn't I?"

He watched in awe as his mother bustled around the kitchen, a smile plastered on her face that Rick nearly believed if he didn't know the pain that was lurking beneath it. If anyone had been affected more by his father's death than Rick, it was his mother. And it showed sheerly by how hard she tried to seem normal. Tried to act like she was okay, even though she could hardly pay to take care of her kids without her husband's salary. Rick felt a flash of guilt—a feeling he'd had often recently—as he realized that he was nineteen, and, yet, he was still relying on his mother to take care of him. That was half the reason he decided to go into law enforcement rather than go to college. The other half was because he just didn't have the money, and loans just end badly for most people. And anyway, he didn't see the point in going to school when he knew what he wanted to do. Law enforcement was his passion. It always had been.

"Rick, man, you with us? You look like you're a thousand miles away." Shane's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. His eyes focused on his best friend, who had looked concerned ever since his mother mentioned him_._

"Yeah, 'm here." Rick was distracted as Hazel crawled up onto his lap rather than taking the chair that their mother had set for her. "What are you, a little monkey? Huh?" He tickled her sides, eliciting a giggle from his little sister.

"No horsin' around before you eat. Food won't settle right," his ma chided, placing cake in front of all of them. He noticed that he and Shane got the biggest pieces, the smallest going to her.

"Thanks, Ma," he said quietly. "Don't you want more cake?"

"Nah," she responded, a little too quickly for his liking. "It's for you and Shane."

"That's Mr. Friend to you," Shane corrected smartly, grinning his stupid smile.

Rick knew that he should respond with something equally witty, but he couldn't find it in himself. He merely picked at his cake, suddenly not feeling very hungry despite the fact he hadn't eaten since morning. But the minute that his mother's cake touched his tongue, he found himself able to make himself shake off the depression that the conversation had cast over him. He could just taste the effort in the moist sponge of the cake, the perfect precision that she used to make the whipped cream the sweetness she knew he loved. She didn't deserve to have the night she had obviously planned so well ruined by his melodramatic bullshit, and he knew it.

"I was thinkin' of gettin' my own apartment sometime soon, Ma," he said. Maybe this particular conversation would take a few worries off her mind.

It seemed to do the opposite as he watched her brow knit together. "You don't gotta do that, son. Save your money for somethin' more worthwhile."

"I'm nineteen. I think it's 'bout time I got out on my own."

"Yeah, I been on my own since last year," Shane added. Rick looked at him gratefully. Shane always had his back on things like this—knew what he was thinking as soon as he opened his mouth. "If worst comes to worst, he could always live with me, Mrs. Grimes."

"I've told ya, call me Susanne," she said absently, looking troubled. For the second time that night, Rick wanted to kick himself.

"Wait!" Hazel yelled out suddenly, turning around to look up at Rick.

"What is it, sunshine?" he asked kindly, putting his hand, large compared to her, on top of her head.

"You ain't talkin' 'bout goin' 'way, are ya?" she asked, sticking her lower lip out in a pout. When he didn't answer right away, tears filled her eyes. "You can't go! Ricky, don' go."

"Shame on you, Rick Grimes, talkin' like that in front of your kid sister," Susanne scolded, but she looked angry at him for another reason entirely. "This is a celebration, for Christ's sake. We'll talk 'bout this some other time, all right?"

Rick sighed, but he smiled. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry, Ma. Didn't mean to ruin everythin'."

"Ya didn't, sweetie. Just eat your cake. I'm still mighty proud'a you."

He nodded, shoveling more of the cake into his mouth, not really tasting it anymore. Surprisingly, he just wanted to finish as soon as possible, so he'd just be able to curl up in his bed and let blissful sleep take him.

* * *

"I'm tellin' ya, man, this place is perfect. Rent's cheap and it's right near the station."

Rick looked around doubtfully at the apartment, unable to associate the word "perfect" with it. The walls were stained to the point that Rick had no idea what color they were _supposed _to be. The bedroom was basically a closet, but he realized that he was lucky to have it separate from the rest of the layout. He couldn't help wishing that the toilet had that privacy, though, because whoever had designed the apartment decided to just stick it in a corner for all to see. He could just get a divider or something, but that was plain uncomfortable.

"There has to be a better place than this," Rick muttered to Shane, careful to keep his voice down, since the landlord was across the rather small room. "Didn't really have something like this in mind when I said I wanted to get out on my own."

"You get used to it, you know? It ain't that bad after a while, Rick. Trust me, all right?"

"Yeah, I guess. . ." Rick sighed. They'd been looking for apartments here and there all week, and he really was starting to think that this was the best he was gonna get. And he couldn't just go back home. He needed to get his own place, take a load off his mother's mind. She acted like she didn't want him to leave, but Rick knew that this would help her. So he had every intention of returning home _only _to pack up his stuff and show his mother the key to his new apartment. And despite his genial exterior, he was one stubborn bastard. He got that from his ma, after all. So he sighed in defeat, letting Shane win.

"Yeah, I'll give it a try. I can fix this place up. But you'd better lend me a hand, you hear?" Rick nudged his friend. He was greeted with a look of offense.

"When've I ever fallen through on a job, man?"

Rick could list more times than he could count, but he just smiled indulgingly at Shane. "Fine, fine. This weekend, then."

"But I've got a date with—" The look Rick gave him made him burst into laughter. "I'm kiddin', man! I'm startin' to think ya don't know me at all."

"I wish," Rick muttered, knowing exactly what would rile his friend up. Getting Shane irate was one of his favorite pastimes because it was so damn _easy_.

And, as predicted, his jibe worked. "You gotta be kiddin'. Without me, you'd—"

"You gonna rent the place or what?" The two jumped at the landlord's voice behind them. Focused on their playful argument, neither of them had heard him approach. Rick snorted once he recovered from the slight scare. His possible landlord didn't waste words, and that was something he respected in a man.

"Yeah, where can I sign the lease?" Even though this place seemed pretty bad, Rick had no doubt that he and Shane could make it look nice. After all, he could suffer through a few ramen dinners to pay off the renovation costs.

The man opened his mouth to answer when Rick's walkie buzzed at his hip. He cursed softly so that his landlord wouldn't hear. This was his break hour, for God's sake. It wasn't like he ditched his post to go and shop for apartments. He _planned _this. He looked at Shane and saw his annoyance mirrored in his friend's face.

Regaining his composure, he brought his attention back to Mr. Lowe and said, "I'm sorry. I'll just be a minute."

Rick walked as far from Shane and Mr. Lowe as the small apartment allowed, well aware that Shane's eyes were trained on him, his ears catching every word that was spoken. "Grimes here. What's going on? Over."

"We got a Dixon in custody. We need you and Walsh at the station right away. Over."

Shane and Rick looked at each other simultaneously when they heard _that_ name, qualms about being summoned during their break entirely forgotten. Everyone in town knew the Dixons—well, more accurately, Merle Dixon. Hardly a day passed where the man wasn't arrested for a fight or drug use and dealing. The two new cops had become used to their superiors rushing out at the drop of a hat after a call involving the serial criminal. They both knew that it was only a matter of time before they met him, but it still came as a shock.

"Mr. Lowe, I'm really sorry, but we're going to have to cut this short. Is there a time I can come back to sign that lease?" Rick asked, already heading toward the door of the apartment.

The landlord looked annoyed, but he nodded. "Call me before seven o'clock tonight, or else I'm givin' the apartment to someone else."

Rick nodded. "I'll be in contact. Sorry!" he added before rushing out the door with Shane hot on his heels.

* * *

"I can't believe it," Rick said as he got into the driver's seat of his car. It'd only been a few months since he and Shane had become cops, but, unlike his friend, no one called him "rookie". He was respected already by his superiors, trusted with more and more with every day that passed. He knew Shane was a little jealous, but he preferred driving with Rick rather than a cocky superior officer. "I expected to hear from Dixon a lot sooner than this."

"He was probably off on some bender so some other poor ass cops had to deal with his worthless ass," Shane commented offhandedly. "Now that he's back, he's probably raising hell."

"Yeah." Rick carefully stayed at the speed limit, despite his excitement. His respect from the other officers wouldn't last if he was caught speeding due to typical rookie adrenaline. "Wonder why they want us there. It's our break hour." That was the reason they were looking at the apartment, after all. "Figure they're shorthanded?"

"Guess so, but I ain't complainin'. Think we'll do any interrogation?"

Rick looked at Shane briefly, not wanting to take his eyes off the road for too long. He saw the sadistic sneer on his partner's face and grimaced. "That ain't why we joined the force, man."

"Well, let me tell you somethin'. The streets are better without someone like Merle Dixon on them—that's for sure."

"We'll do what the law says. We're cops."

"Yeah, yeah. But I tell you, if I had an excuse to get my hands on that guy. . ."

He chose not to entertain the possibility as they pulled into the station's parking lot, jumping out the car as soon as he had the key out of the ignition. Officer Hughes was waiting for them when they got into the lobby, reading the paper with a cup of coffee. Rick noticed that his fingers were covered in the white powder of the donuts he was trying to diet from and hid a laugh behind a well-placed cough.

"Where's he at?" Shane asked immediately, brown eyes wild with excitement, but Rick stepped in front of him.

"What'd you need us for, sir?" he asked more respectfully, shooting a scolding glance in Shane's direction. Last thing he needed was Shane making things harder for himself at the station. He was a good cop, as good as Rick was himself. But his attitude made the others dislike him, and it was a pain to constantly defend his friend. He would be the laughing stock if they didn't realize that he did it out of principle; his friend could be a real asshole sometimes. Shane had to realize he was just hurting himself by acting the way he did, but that man was as bullheaded as they came.

"We wanted to give you and the rookie some direct experience. S'bout time you got it," Hughes responded. "It's just a kid, anyway. Should be easy for you to get information out of him."

_A kid? _Rick thought to himself. From what he'd heard, Merle had _been _a kid when he _started_ his career as their town's most notorious criminal. "Excuse me, sir, but I thought you said you arrested Merle Dixon?"

The officer laughed. "Nah, he's too hardcore for you two. We got his kid brother, Daryl."


	2. Chapter 2

Daryl sat with his arms crossed over his chest, resisting the urge to rub his bruised wrists. Once they'd taken his name, the cops had been unnecessarily rough when they put on the cuffs and shoved him into the back of their car. He should know better, being the brother of Merle Dixon. And, although he'd never admit it, he was scared, not used to any dealings with cops. Especially not when his brother had stuck his stash on him before disappearing basically into thin air. And he'd been caught red-handed with the shit, and no one would believe that it wasn't his just because he was a Dixon.

Great.

And now he was in this fucking room, waiting for some asshole cop to come ask him questions. He'd never even tried to lie. The cops that took him in just chose not to believe him. They probably _still _wouldn't listen to him, so he was debating whether or not to stay silent during the whole ordeal. He was fucked either way. There was hardly any point trying to avoid it.

His eyes snapped up from their downcast position when he heard the door creak open. He kept his face impassive as two young cops stepped into the room one behind the other, both dark-haired. He subconsciously shrank back at the almost hungry look on the face of the one who was further away. He fixed his eyes on the closer cop, not trusting him in the least, but finding his more unthreatening presence to be slightly better than his companion's rather angry one.

"Daryl Dixon?" the seemingly calmer man asked. Daryl just stared at him, clenching his jaw in irritation. _Stupid question. Who the fuck else? _

The officer sighed. "You do know why you're here?" _Another one. Fuck, what was with this guy? _

"Now, you listen here, Dixon." The officer standing back suddenly stepped in front of his partner, putting his hands on the table in front of Daryl and leaning over it, his angry eyes meeting Daryl's. He recoiled just slightly. "When he asks you a question, you answer it. You hear me?"

Daryl just blew a blonde lock of hair out of his eyes with a puff of air directed from his lips, once again staring obstinately at him. He nearly broke his cool façade and flinched when the man stepped forward aggressively, clearly pissed off by the set of his jaw, but his partner pulled him back.

"He's just a kid," the man hissed, roughly pushing his comrade to a corner of the small holding room. "Do me a favor and let me handle this, will you?"

He didn't leave any time for a protest before standing in front of the table and gesturing to the chair. "May I?" he asked politely, looking at Daryl with his soft blue eyes. He heard his partner scoff loudly, so Daryl nodded, just to piss the guy off. The man smiled at him in thanks as he took a seat across from him, but Daryl didn't return it. He knew that things could go bad at any time.

"I'm Officer Rick Grimes, and this is my partner, Officer Shane Walsh," he introduced himself. Once again, his partner made an impatient noise, but Grimes ignored him. "My colleagues caught you in possession of a large volume of marijuana and a smaller quantity of crystal meth." He paused, but Daryl didn't say anything. "What did you plan to do with these drugs?"

"I didn't plan to do nothin'," Daryl responded angrily, even though he'd said it before to the other cops and he _told _himself he wasn't going to be repeating the story. "Shit ain't mine."

Daryl snapped his head toward Walsh when he let out a disbelieving snort. "Got somethin' ta say, Johnny Law?"

"Hey, now, don't pay him any mind," the man in front of him said, holding up his hands in a gesture of mediation. Daryl reluctantly looked back to him, barely suppressing the snarl that was threatening to break over his features. "If it ain't yours, than whose is it?"

"My damn brother's." The younger Dixon didn't feel an ounce of regret for ratting his brother out. Unlike Merle, his record was clean. If he was going to be busted for something, it wasn't going to be because of his stupid fucking brother.

"Oh, come _on,_" the other guy said. "You think we're stupid, kid?"

"Can you keep your mouth shut for one second, Shane?" Grimes asked through gritted teeth. "I told ya, I'm handlin' it!"

"Rick, c'mon! He's got Merle fucking Dixon as a brother! Of course he's gonna blame him to get his ass outta the fire!"

"Shane, shut _up_!" Rick said emphatically. "If you don't cut it out, I'm gonna kick you outta here, and _you'll _have to explain what the hell happened to Hughes."

Daryl watched the exchange in confusion. He couldn't figure out why the guy was being so nice to him. Seeing his clear blue eyes filled with something other than disdain was something of a novelty to him. Something he wasn't used to in anyone other than Merle. But that didn't mean that the look in his eyes was _the same _as his brother's. Merle always looked at him with mockery and humor—undoubtedly at his own expense. Rick's eyes had something akin to understanding in them. Genuine kindness. That was even more shocking to Daryl. After all, who the fuck would ever have occasion to look at a Dixon like that?

When Daryl drew his attention back to the cops, he saw Rick and Shane have a contest of some sort, staring each other down. A few moments passed, and Shane looked down, unable to hold Rick's piercing gaze. "Fine, man, you win. Do what you want."

"Thank you." There wasn't any real gratitude in Grimes' voice. Only cold authority than even someone like Shane didn't defy. But the ice in his eyes was gone when he turned back to Daryl. "Now, what were you tellin' me?"

"You heard what I said. It ain't my shit." Daryl had no desire to irk the officer, but he felt compelled to continue his rough cover, especially with that other asshole in the room.

"Would your brother vouch for you if we were to bring him in?" Rick asked. Daryl blinked. Was he actually taking him seriously? No way. He had to be up to something. Then again, this was the farthest he had gotten with these damn cops. It would be stupid to let this opportunity to get away from him.

"He might, if you can fuckin' find him," Daryl muttered, eyes traveling to the floor.

"How about your father? Does he know anything?"

Daryl's eyes flashed to Rick's kind face, all tolerance for the man fleeing. "My father?" he asked, a mirthless laugh in his voice. "He don't know shit! Get your thumbs outta your ass and get my brother in here!"

"Shane, take care of it. Now." Shane opened his mouth to protest, but Rick's look was enough to shut him up. Cussing under his breath, Shane stomped out of the room, slamming the door shut.

They sat in silence for several minutes, the cop fidgeting uncomfortably, like he had something to say. Daryl just looked at him, not about to make the situation easy for the guy. Even if he was nice, he was still a cop. And Merle would never let him live it down if he was unnecessarily nice to cops.

"I'm sorry 'bout him," Rick said finally, running a hand through his curly hair. "He means well, but. . ."

"He's an asshole?" Daryl suggested. Rick looked surprised, blue eyes looking over him. Then he laughed, and Daryl couldn't hold back a smile. Least the guy was honest.

"Yeah." He laughed again before continuing. "How old are you, Daryl?" he asked. He almost sniggered at the cliché conversation starter. He was finding it really hard to make himself dislike this guy.

"Sixteen," he responded. Might as well tell him the truth. Cops were the kind of douches who would look up the truth and use it against you down the road.

"How's school?"

Daryl snorted. "Don't be actin' better than me, sunshine. When'd you graduate? Last week?"

Rick looked at him evenly. "I may be young, but I'm a police officer, and I think I deserve more respect than that." He paused. "And it was last year, thank you very much."

Daryl gawped at him before chuckling. "You're pretty all right, for a cop."

"Thank you very much. So are you, for a Dixon." Rick's face got serious all of a sudden, and Daryl found himself missing his smile. "You really had nothin' to do with those drugs?"

He shook his head, setting his mouth in a firm line. "You know my brother. Does is sound all that far-fetched t'you?"

Rick had nothing to say to that, and Daryl began to genuinely hope that he'd be able to walk away from this. "We'll find your brother and sort all this out."

"Good luck with that," Daryl muttered. "I can't find him most days."

Rick opened his mouth to respond when Shane came bursting back into the room. The Dixon jumped when the door slammed into the wall, and his eyes rose to glare at the other cop. "We found Dixon in some alley real fucked up on about a dozen different drugs."

"Is he alive?" Daryl demanded, jumping to his feet. Rick looked at him and also got up, looking ready to put himself between Daryl and Shane in case things went awry.

Shane sneered at the kid. "Yeah, he's alive. Askin' where you are and what you did with his stash. Dumbass doesn't even know he's talkin' to cops."

"You'd best watch your mouth!" Daryl yelled, the blood rushing to his face. He took a step toward the man, even though he _really _intimidated him.

"Cut it out! Both of you!" Rick stepped in front of Daryl, bodily pushing the teenager back. He jumped away from the contact, quivering, his body a coiled spring. "Shane, act your age and get the fuck outta here. You said what you came to say."

It was the first cuss Daryl had heard out of the cop's mouth, and he could tell that this time, he was really pissed. Shane seemed to sense it, too, because he left without a word. _Guy's all bark and no bite. Asshole. _

Seems you're all cleared, Daryl," Rick said, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "How 'bout I call your dad to come pick you up?"

Daryl took a step back involuntarily, swallowing thickly. "Don't gotta do that. I'll walk home."

"You live on the other side of town." Rick said it so matter-of-factly, Daryl had to assume that Merle'd been getting in trouble for so long, they had his old address with him and their old man on record. "And it's almost dark. You don't wanna be out, do you?"

"Are ya deaf?" Daryl asked angrily, hardly keeping his voice below a full-blown yell. "I said I'll walk home!"

Rick just looked at him, unfazed by his outburst. Then, he softly said, "All right. I get it. There's no reason for your old man to know about this. But can I give you a ride home, at least? I'm a cop. Can't sleep at night unless I help someone. You know the drill."

Daryl looked at him, the half-smile on the guy's face, kept from yelling only by how _hard _he was trying to soothe his sudden discomfort. He was about to tell him no—politely, too—and be done with it, but he was caught off-guard by the plea in his soft blue eyes. He felt compelled to say yes, even though every instinct was screaming at him to promptly tell the cop to fuck off. But he was already nodding before he could even think about it, and the grin that broke across Rick's face kept him from protesting any further.

* * *

"It's right here," Daryl said, pointing to the drive on the left. It wasn't the right house, but it was close enough that Rick wouldn't be suspicious. Half the reason he proceeded this way was so that his father would have no chance of seeing the cop car. The other half was because he didn't want Rick to see the kind of dump he lived in. He realized that it was irrational, and if Rick knew anything about his brother, which he obviously did, he would know what kind of place was that which he called home. Despite knowing this, he breathed a sigh of relief when Rick pulled to a stop with no qualms in front of the random house he had picked out.

"You stay safe, all right?" Rick said, reaching across Daryl to open the door. Without realizing, Daryl shrank back against the seat to avoid contact with the man's arm. The cop's eyebrows furrowed slightly, but he didn't say anything. "If you need anything, you can always come down to the station."

_Yeah, right, _Daryl thought to himself bitterly. _As if a Dixon would be caught dead in a police station without cuffs on him. _But he didn't say that to the man. "Thanks, Officer."

"Call me Rick."

Daryl looked at him, wondering if he was serious. When there was no change in the man's sincere expression, he nodded. "Rick," he said and climbed out of the car, staring at it as its driver pulled away with a wave and a smile.

Daryl stuffed his hands into the pockets of his tattered jeans. _Weird, _he thought, shaking his head and beginning to walk home.

* * *

Rick drove away, watching with a sigh as Daryl continued walking instead of going up the drive to his supposed house. After hearing the address so many times on his superiors' radios, he knew that he wasn't at the right house. But he hadn't questioned the kid. He knew he had his reasons. But he obviously had _something _to hide. He hoped that it was just that he didn't want to be seen with a cop around his father, not something else. Something of a much darker sort that people kept in their closets.

He shook away the thought as he drove back to the police station. Shane was probably still waiting there, pissed as hell, without a ride home. And as much as he just wanted to clock the guy one in the face, he knew he couldn't just leave him there. So he pulled into the station's parking lot, bracing himself for the shit storm that was surely about to lay siege.

Sure enough, the station's door burst open, its weight the only thing keeping it from smashing into the brick wall. Shane purposefully walked down the steps, not stopping his warpath until he was right in Rick's face. "What the fuck did you think you were doin' in there?"

"_Me_?" Rick asked incredulously, refusing to step back. If Shane wanted to be an aggressive shit, he would meet him all the way. "What about you?"

"What about me, huh?" Shane asked. "You're the one who made me look like a fuckin' asshole!"

"That's 'cause you _are_ a goddamn asshole, Shane!" Rick yelled, and Daryl's smart comment resounded in his head. He would've started laughing if he wasn't so enraged. "He was a damn kid, and you were treatin' him like he killed your sister!"

"He's a Dixon!"

"So _what?_" Rick demanded. "That makes him guilty by association? Do you even _think _before you act?"

Shane didn't respond, choosing instead to jab an accusing finger into Rick's chest. "Did you even think before you took that little bastard's side over me? Your best fucking friend?"

"That ain't what this is about!" Exasperation was starting to take over his rage. "I became a cop because I wanna do right by people. Why the hell did you?"

To that, Shane had no answer, and Rick looked at him in disgust. "Find your own way home. Gimme a call when you grow the fuck up."

He started to walk away when Shane called after him. "Hey! We ain't done!"

"No, we are," Rick said, just loud enough for Shane to hear. He didn't wait for Shane to respond before he got in his car and slammed the door shut, louder than he meant to.

Rick tried to calm himself down as he drove. Emotions like this made you reckless, and he wasn't about to let Shane's behavior get him in a goddamned accident. As he passed the apartment building that he and Shane had been visiting before all this went down, he swore loudly and checked his watch. Seven-fifteen. _Great. _

He tried to tell himself that this day had really just been shitty, but he just wasn't being truthful with himself. His encounter with the younger Dixon, despite the circumstances, had been absolutely enthralling. Rick didn't know where his interest was bred from. Maybe it was the way the kid laughed when he said something funny, like he just couldn't help it. Or how his toughness seemed to just melt when he treated him like a person instead of some criminal. Or maybe it was just how blue his eyes were when he graced him with his laugh. Rick grinned at the memory, keeping a mental image of the kid's young face in his mind so he wouldn't forget any detail.

As quickly as he summoned the image of his laughing visage, it was replaced with the look of fear that had come over his face when Shane's hulking figure towered over him threateningly. It had only been there for a second, but Rick had seen it clear as day. It made him angry with his friend all over again, and he forced himself to slow down in the car. He couldn't help but notice how Daryl reacted to Shane's violence—the yelling, the slamming doors, the sudden movements suggesting physical harm. He cringed back. Infinitesimally, but the movement was there. He even reacted that way when Rick merely reached over to open the car door. Again, he'd said nothing, but curiosity was eating at him. Was he just naturally jumpy? Maybe having a brother like Merle'd do that to him, constantly yelling and probably breaking things when he was drunk.

Rick convinced himself that this was the case, unwilling to think of other explanations for the pure, unadulterated fear he had seen darken the depths of Daryl's too-blue eyes.

* * *

Daryl was quiet when he entered the house. He always was. Always preserving the hope that maybe his old man was passed out somewhere and that he wouldn't wake up. But he was never that lucky. His dad only seemed to be able to black out after he was through with him. Daryl shivered, and it had nothing to do with the chill that late November was injecting into the air.

"Boy?" his father's voice called out from the middle of the house. Daryl was relieved that there was no drunken slur in his voice.

"Yeah?" Daryl called back dully, shedding his leather jacket and putting it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

"Where you been?"

Daryl walked into the living room, where he knew his father was, the consequences of giving his father a headache with all this yelling first and foremost on his mind.

"I was jus' in the woods," he lied, too tired to come up with something better. His ordeal with that stupid motherfucker at the police station had exhausted him. Truthfully, he was glad that Rick had given him a ride home. He didn't know if he'd have had the strength to fight back if someone picked a fight with him, as they often did.

"Oh, yeah? You tellin' me you went out in the woods without yer crossbow?" Daryl swallowed. He hadn't thought about that. "And there ain't a speck of dirt on you, neither. Either yer a fuckin' pussy, or yer a lyin' little fuck." The man got to his feet, towering over Daryl. He shrank back, unable to meet his father's eyes.

He wanted to hit something—or maybe even cry. His relief at his father's lack of drunkenness fled as soon as it had come. Why did his old man have to choose today to be sober? To be observant when he didn't want to tell him where he'd been? "Dad, I—"

He knew that he should've expected the punch when it hit him, but he still crashed to the ground nonetheless, his hand going up to touch his jaw as it throbbed with pain. "Tell me where the fuck you've been, you stupid son of a bitch!"

A swift kick to his ribs, and his side was exploding with agony. He curled in on himself, trying to make the pain lose its intensity. His arms went up to protect his head, prioritizing parts of his body that he couldn't afford to have suffer the abuse. "The police station!" he yelled, hardly keeping the sob out of his voice. He distracted himself—kept himself from crying—by coughing up on the floor, hoping beyond hope there was no blood in his saliva.

"What were ya doin' there?" his father demanded, reaching down and to haul Daryl up by his shirt. He pulled him close to his face, shaking him roughly, and Daryl's eyes moved to look anywhere but at him. "Tryin' to get away from yer old dad?"

"No!" Daryl gasped, the pain in his side unreal at the rough movement. He realized that, since it was a work day, his father had been wearing his steel-toed boots, and he knew he'd be lucky if his ribs were only bruised. "Th-they searched me and found Merle's stash! They let me go when they realized it was his."

"What, you rat your brother out? Try to get him in lockup again?" His father tossed him away, and Daryl hardly managed to keep his footing, staggering away from his enraged father. He wanted to run, but the guy was standing _right in front _of the fucking hallway that led to his bedroom. He cursed his luck, which seemed to be getting worse and worse as the day went on.

"No," he whimpered, hating himself for the pitiful sound. He could just hear his brother's voice in his head, calling him a pussy. Merle never cried, never made a sound, not even when his father whipped his back to bleeding shreds. But even if his brother was a douchebag sometimes, he still protected him. Didn't hit him for saying the wrong thing. He'd choose to be around him rather than their father any day. "They found 'im passed out somewhere. Said he admitted that he'd pinned the shit on me. . ."

"Where the fuck is he?" his old man hissed, getting closer.

"I-I don' know." He didn't even try to escape when his father drew back his fist, only cringing when it flew toward his face. This time, he was thankfully able to stay on his feet, a less vulnerable position than sprawled across the ground. He retreated into the corner as his father cussed and got his jacket and keys, wishing he could melt into the shadows dusk cast in the room. He knew the only reason he gave a shit where Merle was at was because he helped pay the bills to some degree—just a couple hundred bucks here or there. And that was the only reason he wanted Daryl to stick around, no matter how many times he beat the shit out of him. Because the money would stop coming if Daryl wasn't there. Sure as hell didn't give him the money so it would go to paying for his booze, even though that was where it ended up, anyway. It was the only way Merle bothered to take care of Daryl anymore. Most of the time, he was off doing his own thing, and his kid brother was left to deal with their father.

He waited until he heard the door slam, flinching at the loud noise, before he went to his room. He didn't want his father to break the lock on his door, his only sense of security, if he suddenly decided he wasn't through with him, and Daryl didn't have the money to buy a new one. The sun still had yet to go to its resting place beneath the mountains, but he curled up under the blankets anyway, every breath sending pain through his hopefully just-bruised ribs. He could feel his eye swelling already, but he didn't care much. It wasn't like he had any friends to ask him about it, and his teachers didn't give a fuck. He'd been coming to school with his skin a patchwork of blues and purples since kindergarten, and no one had ever said a damn thing. There was no reason for them to start now.

Now that he knew he was entirely alone, he let his tears flow free, his pillow soaking wet within minutes. His body hurt, but he knew it could be a lot worse. It _had been _a lot worse.

As he tried to find the solace of sleep, he found himself thinking angrily about the kind, gentle look in Rick's eyes. He didn't know why Rick, a total stranger, should look like that, when no one he actually knew could. He wanted to scream at how unfair it was, and tears began to flow more steadily down his cheeks and onto his sheets.

Despite his anger, it was the image of Rick's smiling face that calmed him down enough to fall asleep. It was a sea that was the color of Rick's eyes that pulled him out into its waves, washing the pain away, even if it was only for a little while.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Well, this got a decent amount of attention over the eighteen hour period after I posted the first two chapters, so here's a third one. I have up to chapter six already written, since this story is primarily on a different site. So, review if you want fast updates? Don't be a ghost reader; it's no fun to write for people like that.

In response to my guest reviewer who thought that Daryl would never have ratted Merle out. . .

I definitely see what you're saying, but I'm going for a bit of a different perspective on the relationship of the Dixon brothers. Daryl isn't stupid. He's sixteen years old, and, where Merle'd been in juvie about a dozen different times by that age, he doesn't want to be like that. Is he going to go to the cops and tell them that his brother's holding and selling and using a multitude of different drugs? No. But if he's the one who got aggressively cuffed and dragged into the police station, he's not going to take that. He doesn't want to be like his father or his brother. He's the good kid in that family, which isn't saying much, but it means something to Daryl, even if he won't admit it to himself.

I don't really view it as ratting Merle out, either. A kid from Daryl's upbringing, when cornered, is going to lash out. And Shane and every other cop other than Rick was doing plenty of cornering. Daryl did what he had to do to get out of that situation.

Sure, Daryl feels a sick kind of loyalty to his brother. But it doesn't mean he's going to go to juvie because his stupid brother decided to pin those drugs on him. Not to mention that Merle wasn't there to intimidate Daryl into doing what he said. Daryl changes how he acts depending on who he's with in the flesh. And there's plenty of resentment there, as you'd imagine, because Merle'd left Daryl with their father as soon as he was old enough, not knowing what it would mean for his baby brother. So, yeah. There's my reasoning. Anyway, I hope you continue to like the story, my guest reviewer.

* * *

Rick awoke to the piercing ring of the telephone. He squinted his eyes against the golden sunlight dripping into his room, ignoring the tiredness that itched at them. He turned over on his side to look at his clock and shivered when his quilt slid off his shoulder, exposing him to the bitter chill of the autumn morning. Focusing on the digits of the clock, he narrowed his eyes in irritation. He didn't have a shift until later in the day, and he was purposely planning to sleep in. He hadn't woken up this early since he'd been in high school, and that had been his least favorite part of the place. Normally, he would have hung out with Shane at some coffee shop to pass the time, but the son of a bitch still hadn't called and apologized for how he'd acted. And Rick sure as hell wasn't going to go running back to him; he had no desire to see the guy when he was being such an asshole.

He turned his attention to the person on the other end of the line when he heard his mother answer the phone. His curiosity was sated immediately, though, since she came up the stairs to knock on his door.

"Rick, honey! It's Glenn!" Glenn was his friend, two years younger than him and a junior in high school. _I wonder if Daryl's in any of his classes, _Rick pondered absently. He blinked in confusion at the thought, trying to think of why something like getting a call from a friend had reminded him of the younger Dixon. He disregarded it to jump out of bed and pull on a long-sleeved tee shirt to fight off the bite of the air. He opened the door to take the phone off his mother's hand, mouthing a quick thanks.

"Hey, Glenn," Rick said, stifling a yawn.

"Oh, man, Rick, did I wake you up?" He heard the typical concerned worry in Glenn's voice and smiled. He missed that kid. He'd been the first one to befriend the bookworm after he'd moved from Michigan when Rick was junior, and he prided himself in yanking his head out of the textbooks a bit alongside Shane.

"Yeah, but that's what I get for trying to sleep in." He yawned again. "What d'ya need?"

"My piece of crap car died on me _again_." Rick shook his head fondly at the anxious note in his voice. Glenn worried too much.

"Didn't you just get it fixed?"

"Yeah! But those guys don't know what they're doing, man. I swear to God. They've botched the job _three times_."

"Didn't you think that was reason enough to get another mechanic?" Rick asked, but he continued before Glenn could answer. "All right, all right. I'll look around, see if I can find anyone better," Rick said reassuringly, but then looked at the clock again. "Wait, how the hell did you get to school?"

"The thing lasted till I got to the lot, but now I have no way to get home." Glenn's dismay reached its peak in his voice. Rick couldn't hold back a laugh.

"Jesus Christ, Glenn! You didn't hafta go and give me a whole sob story to ask me for a ride. I'd still do it even if your car was perfectly fine."

"I _know _that," his friend said. "But how am I going to get it home?"

"I know a few guys who can get it towed for you. It'll be back at your place before school lets out, and I'll be there to drive you home when the bell rings. Sound good?"

"Rick, you are a _savior_. Thank you _so much_."

Rick interrupted his typical wave of gratuities. "Glenn, just get to class. You have—" He looked at the clock. "—five minutes."

He heard Glenn swear loudly. "Oh, God, I have to go. I'll see you later!"

Grinning as he heard the line disconnect, Rick pulled on his robe and left his room. He put the phone back in its cradle when he passed the small table that held it, still yawning every few seconds. He had half a mind to go back to bed, but he really wasn't in the mood.

"What did Glenn want?" Susanne asked when he entered the kitchen.

"His car broke down. He needs a ride home," Rick responded, shaking his head fondly at his friend's antics.

"Good of you to help him out," she remarked as she asked him to set places for breakfast, returning to the pan of sizzling bacon.

"You know me. Always helpin' someone out here or there." He smiled as he remembered saying something similar to Daryl when trying to convince him to take him up on his offer to drive him home. The grin lingered on his face as he grabbed silverware from the drawer and grabbed plates from the drying rack next to the sink.

"What has you so happy, huh?"

Rick looked up in surprise, setting down the three sets of dishes he had gotten. "What do ya mean?" He hadn't really noticed anything different in his behavior.

"Don't be like that. You're m'own son. There ain't nobody who knows you better than me."

"Ma, I really don't know—"

"Do ya want me to spell it out for you?" She laughed, a soft, tinkling sound. "Ever since you got home from interrogating that kid, you been nothin' but smiles."

Rick raised an eyebrow and stopped his proceedings to help with breakfast entirely. "I didn't interrogate him. I jus' asked him some questions. Shane was the one who wanted to interrogate the poor guy."

"Why'd you stop him?"

"Because he was being a real asshole about it," Rick said. His mother looked at him reprovingly for his use of vocabulary.

"I haven't seen you and Shane fight like this since you were boys," she commented. "Is he jealous of that kid?"

"Ain't got nothing to do with Daryl," he responded and began to fold napkins. "It's got to do with Shane being a damn sadist."

"C'mon, honey. Shane's your best friend. Don't you think you're bein' harsh?"

Rick huffed, sitting down at one of the places he had set as he waited for his breakfast. He would be more than ready to forgive Shane—if the cocky son of a bitch had the face to apologize, first. How he had acted with Daryl was absolutely despicable to him—especially when the teen had offered no resistance to their questions.

He looked up from his dark thoughts when his mother shoveled some bacon and eggs onto his plate, the aroma wafting to his nose and making him groan with delight. One thing he was really going to miss when he finally got his own place was his mom's cooking. There wasn't anything quite like it in the entire world, and he doubted that the ramen he was going to be eating as he saved up his money for his monthly rent would even come close.

"So, you gonna see this Daryl kid again?"

"For Christ's sake, Ma!" Rick said in exasperation. Damn, was this woman persistent. "I did my job; I questioned him and let him go when he was proven innocent. That's the end of it."

"Hey, now, he's only a few years younger than you." She tapped her lip thoughtfully. "How old?"

"Sixteen," Rick responded, rolling his eyes.

"Why, that's Glenn's age. Ain't no reason you shouldn't talk to him."

"It ain't that I shouldn't talk to him. It's that I have no reason to. Probably never gonna see him again." He tried to convince himself that the frustration he heard in his own voice was directed as his mother.

"Yeah, well, you ain't if you don't try," Susanne said gravely, looking at him closely as she raised a piece of bacon to her mouth.

"Aw, Ma, just let it alone?" he damn near pleaded, trying to fight the blood that rushed to his cheeks. Did his mother really believe that he would be so unprofessional as to become friends with someone his damn workplace had _just _arrested?

"Fine, but only if you call Shane," she responded, and her eyes glinted mischievously. He sighed. Rick didn't think he remembered a single instance where his mother hadn't gotten her way somehow, and if the past predicted anything, that wasn't going to change now.

"_Fine,_" he said, but he pulled a face. "But I ain't apologizing."

"I never said ya had to. Just . . . speak."

Rick couldn't hold back his laughter at that, bacon crunching on one side of his mouth while he sniggered. "'Speak'?" he asked. "That's the best you can come up with?"

She glared at him, but a grin was tugging at her lips. "It helps a hell of a lot, you know. Keepin' everythin' inside don't do anyone any favors. You take that from a woman who was married for twenty years."

"Oh, so, now Shane and I are married?" he asked teasingly. "Gee, Ma. You're really desperate to keep me from being single, ain't ya?"

"Stop bein' smart and eat your breakfast," she advised. He chuckled before shoving the last of his eggs into his mouth, smiling to himself.

"I'll call Shane, but I ain't apologizing," he repeated as he got up to take his plate to the sink for washing. He quickly scrubbed the plate clean and left the room, calling over his shoulder, "Thanks for breakfast."

He swiped the phone up from its cradle as he walked by the table again, running up to his room and lying down on his bed. He stared up at the ceiling, fingers hesitating over the numbers as he considered disobeying his mother and just going back to sleep, since he was suddenly tired and frustrated. But he prided himself on being a man of his word, so Rick dutifully dialed the numbers and held the phone up to his ear, hoping that maybe he'd be lucky enough to get a busy signal.

"'lo?" a tired voice answered, and Rick rolled his eyes. Guess he wasn't the only one unlucky enough to get woken up on his morning off.

"Hey, asshole," Rick greeted, only half kidding.

"Rick?" Shane asked, his voice thick with sleep.

"Who else? Jesus Christ?" He was unwilling to shed his sarcasm just yet.

"Aw, hell, Rick. You ever hear of sleepin' in?"

"Yeah, well, Glenn woke me up. Figured I'd ruin your morning, too. 'specially 'cause Ma wanted me to give you a call."

"How come? She hear 'bout our disagreement? And what'd Glenn want?"

"A ride home," Rick said, and then snorted. "That's not what I'd call it, but, more or less, yeah."

"You still pissed off about that?" Shane sounded slightly more awake, and he heard the sound of a tap running. The guy was probably making himself the coffee he relied on so heavily.

"What do you think?" he asked sarcastically, falling back onto his bed, the air whooshing out his lungs in a frustrated little breath.

"He was just some nobody kid."

"Doesn't change the fact that you were bein' a dick," Rick quipped.

"What do you want? Me ta get down on my knees and beg for . . . what? Forgiveness?"

"It'd be a start." He let authority color his tone, and he vaguely recognized the tone he had used when ordering him around during their questioning of Daryl. Rick knew that Shane wouldn't want to seriously cross him, despite how ill-tempered he was. Hell, he was probably the only one Shane knew wouldn't take his bullshit. Maybe that was why Rick was able to keep him around. He snorted at the thought.

As predicted, Shane let out a defeated sigh. "Sorry, man. I'm sorry. All right?"

Though his friend was pissed off to be made to do something that he undoubtedly considered unforgivably demeaning, Rick could hear the sincerity in his voice. "Yeah, all right," he ceded.

"We cool?" Shane asked, still sounding a bit miffed.

"Not yet." Rick grinned at the frustrated groan that reached him from the other end of the line. "You gotta help me find an apartment, still."

"You tellin' me you didn't call that guy back?"

"It was too late after we were through talkin' to Daryl," Rick explained, though he knew there was very little excuse for letting the opportunity slip from his grasp. Though, he had to admit that he wasn't too keen on the apartment to begin with. The whole bathroom situation still made him a little more than uncomfortable.

"It took us forever to find _that _shithole," Shane griped. "You seriously gonna drag me along while you look for another one?"

"If you want to return our friendship to its previous—"

Shane cut off his overdramatic spiel. "Fuck you. I'll see you at, let's say, eight."

"You don't have to get all pretty for me, Shane," Rick said chastely, and started laughing as Shane started to splutter. "I'll be there." He laughed harder when the line went dead after a string of muttered curses.

* * *

Daryl walked into class five minutes late.

He had been taking extra time to use the less-traveled hallways of the school, so people would have no reason to question his blackened eye and jaw, or the limp he had to put into his gait to keep the pain in his ribs in check. They were definitely cracked, and, if he wasn't careful, they wouldn't heal properly. Either way, no one ever questioned where his bruises came from. It didn't take much to put two and two together when he was a Dixon. Everyone in town knew what a piece of shit his father was. But he still didn't want to bring attention to himself.

Daryl tried to be small as possible, his blonde bangs combed over to cover the marred side of his face as best they could. He didn't make eye contact with his teacher, but he could sense Mr. Howard's disapproving glare on him. His English teacher was the only one who gave a shit whether or not he came to class, and it pissed him off. He wasn't failing, and he didn't have enough absences to lose credit. _Hoss should really mind his own business, _he thought to himself as he put his bag down and slid into his seat.

"Do you have your homework, Dixon?" Howard asked. Daryl didn't look up as he shook his head.

"What was that? Speak up."

He was angry enough to look up this time, despite wanting to hide his blackened eye. "No, I don't have my fucking homework. A real fuckin' surprise, innit?" The classroom erupted into laughter, but the glare Daryl sent their way shut them up pretty good.

"Watch your mouth, Dixon, or I'll have you in the office before you can say another word."

"Go ahead and do that." He sneered at the man. "Don't make a difference to me."

But Daryl knew that he would never go through with his threat. Howard wanted him where he could make him squirm. And, as much as he hated it, Daryl knew that he would let him get the satisfaction of his fight. He wasn't able to sit there and take the abuse, even if he knew such behavior would make the man's taunting stop. Because he was always a bomb, ready to go off at any second. And Howard knew it.

"You know what?" the man asked, and Daryl didn't answer. He would undoubtedly have plenty of time to give the bastard a piece of his mind. "I think you're lyin'. I'm gonna keep you here."

"Go ahead and do that," Daryl muttered in response, hoping to put an end to this entire thing, even though he knew his silence was the only thing that would grant that.

And, as predicted, the man continued loudly, "'cause you don't have any more of an excuse to slack off and do what you want than the rest of us."

"Never said I did." The silence in the room was nearly tangible. Daryl felt that, if he moved, breathed, even, he would be cut to pieces by the tension.

"You think you can just walk into this classroom like you don't have a damn care in the world. We all know that ain't true, Dixon."

"How the fuck would you know?" Howard's words were a bit too close to the truth for comfort. Daryl knew that the man was just inciting him, and he was just too fucking eager to take the goddamn bait. Something inside him was telling him to stop, but he was just so angry at _everything_, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Because I know the kind of person you are, Dixon," Howard said, the malevolence in his eyes the only thing giving away his true motive. His face was entirely impassive otherwise, and it irked Daryl to no end.

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"You're the kinda guy who runs around acting like he ain't afraid of anything. But you're afraid of a lot more than you'll let on, ain't ya?"

Daryl just looked at him, unsure of what he was getting at, and a smirk turned up the corners of the man's mouth. "Let me tell you, son, you got a lot more to be afraid of then your daddy."

He froze, his own breathing not even disturbing his perfect stillness. He continued to stare blankly at the man, who eventually turned around to continue his lesson. The bruises littering his body seemed to ache worse than they had all day, and Daryl wanted to curl in on himself to stop the sudden pain.

Howard had never gone this far. Sure, he'd given him lecture after lecture for not being on time or not doing his homework, but he had never been so damn personal. He was so staggered by the fact that someone would openly mention his father—and, worse, use it as a weapon against him.

Daryl could feel everyone's eyes on him, and he fought valiantly to keep up his cool façade. To make it seem like he just brushed off the words his teacher had said to him, even though they kept repeating in his head over and over again. He had to focus to keep his breaths even and slow, even though they wanted to escape from him in panicked little gasps that revealed the turmoil that lay just under the surface. He had half a mind to get up and walk out of the classroom, reporting himself to the office, because _anything _would be better than sitting in this room with a fucking douchebag who thought it perfectly fine to bring up someone's personal business in front of a room of twenty some odd people. But he was still basically paralyzed, hands trembling just slightly over the wood of his desk. He focused on clenching his fists to stop the tremor, hoping that no one had seen it, and that was the most he could do to help himself as he let the words of Mr. Howard's lesson wash over him.

Daryl hated how the man could affect him like this. The incessant sound of his domineering voice made it impossible for him to calm down. The pain he felt everywhere _on top_ of this incident with his asshole of a teacher was too much for him. His panic roiled inside of him, pressing behind his eyes, putting a lump in the middle of his throat that was impossible to swallow down. He could also hear Merle somewhere in his brain, ridiculing him for being so damn weak. The knowledge that his brother was right just made everything worse, and he clenched his fists tighter. He knew he wouldn't even be able to hope to calm down until he could leave this hellhole of a classroom, but he also knew that wasn't going to happen for another thirty or so minutes.

So he steeled himself, gritting his teeth behind his lips, tightly closed against the pained gasps that were fighting to escape from his throat. With Merle's mocking words a cacophony in his ears, he knew he could endure this; he'd been through much worse.

And he had the scars to prove it.

* * *

Rick pulled into the school parking lot, happily spinning the key to his new apartment on his finger. This new place was substantially better than the last, and he wondered why Shane hadn't located it right away. If its tenants had just cleared out, which seemed likely, then Rick had really lucked out. The rent wasn't as cheap as the first, but Rick certainly didn't mind paying for a wall that separated the bathroom from the main room.

He watched as rain splattered against his windshield, surprised. The forecast hadn't said anything about rain, but freak storms weren't all that uncommon in their area.

Rick was tracing the patterns the raindrops left on the glass with his eyes when the passenger door flew open, startling him. His head snapped to the side to see Glenn climbing into the seat like a soaked cat, his black hair shiny and dripping, plastered to his head like tar.

"Man, this day just keeps getting worse and worse," he groaned, pushing his sodden hair out of his eyes as he shut the door. "Thanks for this, Rick."

"Don't mention it. Your car is home, by the way. I found a guy who can look at it. He'll be over tomorrow afternoon."

"I swear to God, you're a freaking savior."

Rick just smiled as he started the car and followed the line of vehicles eagerly attempting to leave the grounds. He probably would've been smart to have just come a little later, but knowing Glenn, he'd have thought Rick'd forgotten about him and stressed out even further than he already had today.

"How was school?" he asked, inching forward as the line began to move ever so slightly.

"I guess it was okay," Glenn said, but his voice was a bit subdued. Rick looked at him briefly to see his friend shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"You guess?" Rick asked. "Something happen?"

Glenn let out a large breath of air he'd obviously been holding. "Mr. Howard really tore into some kid today. Said some stuff I'm pretty sure could get his ass fired if anyone went to administration."

Rick shook his head in pity for whoever had been on the receiving end of Mr. Howard's wrath. He'd never been in that position, but he had witnessed plenty of his legendary lectures, so he knew how unpleasant they could be.

"Who was it?"

"Daryl Dixon," Glenn said, scratching at his chin absentmindedly as he stared out the window.

Rick felt heat rush down his body as he looked at his friend. "Daryl?

"What?" His friend turned to look at him in surprise. "You know him?"

Rick shook his head. "Hardly. He got brought into the station yesterday. Turns out Merle Dixon doesn't care if his little brother gets caught in the crossfire, so I took him home when he was all cleared."

Glenn sighed. "You serious? That, and what Howard said. . . Guy's having a tough week."

"What did Howard say, exactly?" Rick asked, dreading what the answer might be. But Glenn shook his head, twisting his mouth.

"I don't wanna say, man. S'enough that entire classroom had to hear it."

Rick sighed, but he respected Glenn's decision. His friend's reluctance, however, did prove that the old bastard had said something pretty damn awful, and that made anger pool hot in his stomach, burning into him the longer he thought about it. He didn't even have driving to distract him with the miniature traffic jam in the school parking lot.

Glenn must've noticed the tension in his body, because he put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Come on, man. Daryl'll be fine. Everyone knows he's tough as nails. That's why Howard likes to mess with him."

Rick nodded, but his words didn't do much to calm him down. He waited anxiously for when he was going to be able to leave the parking lot as he finally inched nearer to the exit. When he was just a few cars away from leaving, a figure, huddled against the gusting wind and rain, made its way into his vision. At first, Rick couldn't tell the gender, since the hood was drawn over the head and face, but he quickly identified him as a male from the shape of the body. He could see that he was soaked to the bone, and even from this distance, Rick picked up on a tremor in his limbs. He pulled to a stop, granting a few irritated honks from the cars behind him, and rolled down the window.

"Hey," he called as rain splattered into his face. Glenn let out a little grunt of protest at the sudden onslaught of rain until he realized what Rick was doing. "You need a ride?"

The boy turned his face to him in shock, and Rick's mouth fell open in surprise at the face lurking behind the shadows of his hood.

It was none other than Daryl Dixon's.

"Holy shit," Rick said, and he heard Glenn mutter something that sounded like 'speak of the devil'. Only one of Daryl's pretty blue eyes were visible, but he could see plain as day the glazed sadness in it. He was concerned to see that the carefully guarded aspect he had observed in them at the police station was gone, but he forced a smile onto his face regardless. "Looks like I'm givin' you another ride home, huh?"

The relief that Rick expected never made an appearance on Daryl's visage. Instead, the teen looked like he wanted to disappear into the rain-darkened asphalt beneath him. His eyes flickered around to look anywhere other than into Rick's, and his mouth opened and closed as he probably tried to think of an excuse as to why he would rather walk home than get a ride. Suddenly, a car decided to honk its horn right behind Rick's, and Daryl flinched at the loud noise, rain dripping down his prominent cheekbones like tears. There was hardly a moment's hesitation, and the ostensibly frazzled teen ducked his head and clambered into the back of the car. Once Daryl was in the car, Rick let the smile on his face dissipate, replaced by a concerned frown. He automatically turned the heat on high, seeking to rid him of the shivering wrought by being doused in the freezing, late autumn rain. His blue eyes looked at Daryl through the mirror, his bowed head, his darkened hair that dripped onto his equally soaked jeans.

This persona was so different from the tough kid he'd seen in the police station. He wondered if what Howard had said was responsible for this change, and the urge to go and shoot the bastard with the gun he had at his hip flared inside him. He shook his head; those kinds of thoughts were absolutely ridiculous for a cop to have.

"How'd you do on your pre-calc test?" Glenn asked suddenly, breaking the tense silence hanging in the air. Daryl jerked his head upward slightly, as if surprised that someone was addressing him about such a thing. Rick realized that there probably weren't many people who cared about Daryl's academic achievements.

Right when Rick thought that Daryl was going to ignore his friend's inquiry, he muttered, "Ninety-three." Maybe Daryl was so quiet because of whatever Glenn had witnessed during their shared English class. He imagined that that would make the air between the two less than comfortable.

Glenn let out a low whistle. "Man, how did you pull that off? I got an eighty-eight. My mom's going to kill me."

Daryl just shrugged, unfazed by his classmate's enthusiasm. "I like trig."

The conversation died out pretty quickly, and Rick realized that that was Daryl's goal—a tactic to keep everyone out. But he knew that wasn't in Daryl's best interest, and Rick couldn't help but think of ways to make it so _he _was in Daryl's inner circle.

"Hey, Glenn?" Rick asked, getting the attention of his friend, who was sitting with his head in his hand, probably daydreaming.

"Hunh?" he responded and turned his head slightly in Rick's direction.

"It's Friday. You wanna hang out? We could go see a movie or something. I don't have another shift 'til eleven."

"Oh, man, that sounds awesome!" The teen's dark eyes brightened, undoubtedly at the thought of not having to face his mother after getting that eighty-eight he had mentioned. "We could go see _One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest_. It only came out last week, but I couldn't go to see it because it's rated R."

"You tellin' me you're using me to go and see an adult movie?" Rick asked, letting mock hurt fall into his expression. When Glenn scrambled to apologize and clarify, he burst into laughter. "S'fine by me. Any movie with Jack Nicholson is worth the watch."

Glenn grinned at him, half annoyed and half amused. Rick was still smiling as he turned to go in the direction of the movie theater, purposely missing the street that would lead him to Daryl's house.

Daryl seemed to notice, because his one visible eye looked into Rick's through the mirror in confusion and a bit of anger. He fought to keep the nonchalant smile on his lips, his brow entirely clear of lines etched by worry.

"Hey, Officer?" Rick sighed inwardly. Daryl hadn't called him by name, like he'd asked last night. "In case ya forgot overnight, the way to my place was back there," Daryl said, but the attitude that Rick would have expected wasn't there. The guy sounded so resigned and tired, Rick almost turned around and brought him to his house, just so he would stop looking so dejected.

"You ain't gonna come see the movie with us?" the cop asked instead, feigning surprise. He thought that his imitation paled in comparison to the genuine shock that crossed over Daryl's face.

"Didn't know I was bein' invited," Daryl responded, averting his eyes, his face quickly becoming stony again.

"Of course you are," Glenn interjected as he seemed to catch on to what Rick was doing. Rick smiled a little more genuinely at that. His friend was really too smart for his own good, and he was thankful for it. "Who wants to be home on a Friday night?"

Daryl didn't seem to have an argument against that, but he still seemed uncomfortable. "I got some stuff I gotta do. I should probably jus' go home."

"It's the weekend, Daryl; do it later. Ya got two days."

Rick wanted to kick himself as Daryl began to subtly panic, eyes darting everywhere in his surroundings as he and Glenn cornered him with their logic. He found the strength to continue with his plan as he told himself that this was so Daryl would have a good time. So Rick could have time to dispel that melancholy glaze over his ridiculously blue eyes. This would be worth it.

Finally, Daryl nodded, and Rick grinned. "I'll go. I like Jack Nicholson," he said, trying to make it seem as if he were the one making the decision, even though Rick knew he had pressured him into it until his options were basically nil. Glenn, too, looked happy, probably thinking about the incident in Howard's class. Knowing his friend, he was doubtless formulating ways he could make up for merely being there during the whole thing, even though it was in no way his fault.

Daryl looked a little more at ease as he settled back into the backseat, arms crossed over his chest. Rick forced himself to take his eyes off of him to watch the road. "Do you know what show times there are today?"

"Three o'clock sounds like a safe bet," Glenn responded. "But we can check when we get there."

Rick nodded and looked at the time in his car. _2:33_, it read. They had ample time to get to the theater and buy their tickets, which meant that Rick could work in a few minutes to talk to Daryl, make sure that he was okay. That was the whole point of this little adventure, and he intended to make good on his promise, even if it was only to himself.

Rick pulled into the theater's parking lot and stopped in front of the entrance. He took in the typically crowded lot of a rainy day and smiled slightly at the opportunity it offered. "Glenn, go check the times and get our tickets, all right? I'm gonna go park."

Glenn nodded, looking relieved that he wouldn't have to be in the rain for long. He opened the car door and stepped out, feet splashing in the puddles as he ran toward the entrance.

"Why do ya need both of us ta park the car?" Daryl asked suddenly, and Rick turned around to meet unveiled suspicion staring at him from the teen's one visible eye.

Rick shrugged. "Well, I wanted to save Glenn from the rain, and you already know me. Ain't it better to walk with someone you know?"

Daryl narrowed his eyes, looking for deceit in his allegedly considerate actions. He seemed to find none, and he gave a curt nod. "I guess."

Rick just smiled and swerved away from the entrance, circling the lot as he looked for a parking spot. It was Daryl who found one, inconspicuously placed between two large SUVs, and Rick turned into it. They both stepped out into the rain, exiting the car on the same side. Rick pulled up the collar of his jean jacket to fight off the wind, but he didn't have any other protection from the pelting rain that was blown into his face. He was glad that Daryl had his hoodie, but he began to regret not sending him with Glenn when the shivering that had gone away in the heat of the car returned full force in his slender body. Not for the first time, he told himself that it was worth it.

"Congrats on your test," Rick said conversationally. "It ain't every day that someone does better than Glenn."

Daryl didn't respond, so he let the topic die. It wouldn't do either of them any good if he pushed him. Last thing he needed was for Daryl to close up on him. He glanced over to look at Daryl from the corner of his eye, carefully enough so that the Dixon wouldn't notice.

He could just see the tip of his nose past the edge of the hood. His head was bowed against the wind, and his hands were shoved deep in his pockets as he continued to walk through the parking lot. Rick noticed he was slightly pigeon-toed in one foot as he watched his tattered construction boots splash against the asphalt. He wondered if that was the cause of the slight inconsistency in his pace. He himself had a problem where his feet were too splayed when he walked. His mother always told him that it made him look like a real western sheriff when he wore his bull hide boots.

Just as his eyes traveled up to see if he could catch a glimpse of Daryl's face to better scope the guy's mood, a particularly strong gust of wind blew his hood back, revealing what Rick suddenly realized he'd been trying to hide. Even though Daryl quickly tugged the garment back into place, Rick had seen enough.

Vibrant bruises, stark against Daryl's white skin, had jumped out at Rick underneath the blond bangs Daryl had tried to hide them with. He had just barely seen a swollen, black eye beyond the shadows his hair cast, and the bruise that he'd seen on his jaw was an alarming shade of purple. He felt murderous intent fill him as he thought about the unknown assailant who had marred Daryl's skin in such a way.

The tension in Daryl's body was visible as the two of them stopped. Rick reached toward Daryl slowly, but it didn't stop the younger from flinching away from his hand. He tugged his hood down and impatiently brushed his veiling hair out of the way, careful not to touch the no doubt painful bruises coloring the left side of his face.

"What the fuck happened?" Rick growled, and the controlled rage in his voice was nearly frightening to himself. Daryl looked angry, but he could see the fear lurking beneath the façade. He softened his voice as he continued, "Daryl, what happened?" He didn't want to be the bad guy here. Someone had apparently already taken that role.

"Why the fuck do you care?" he snapped, seeming to have recovered from his injuries being discovered. But his harsh words were somewhat subdued by his quivering bottom lip, be it from the cold or this conversation in general.

Rick realized that he had to take a more gentle approach. "Those are some nasty bruises, man. A guy's gotta wonder, doesn't he?" Daryl just glared at him, and he could see the plea for him to leave it alone in his eyes. But as he stared at the swollen, darkened skin around his left eye and jaw, he _needed _to know.

"I jus' had an accident hunting last night. Y'know, after ya drove me home," Daryl responded after a few minutes. "Tripped up an' fell when I was trackin' a deer. Ain't somethin' ya really wanna advertise."

Rick looked at him, having the nagging thought that something wasn't right. It wasn't easy to get a single black eye from simply falling. Usually a blow to the nose bruised both eyes, not just one, and not nearly as severely as he'd seen with Daryl's. "Oh, man, I'm sorry. I thought someone had hit you pretty good for a second there," he voiced his suspicion. Gauging his reaction could give Rick an idea of the validity of his explanation.

But Daryl didn't give anything away, just stared at him in shock and a bit of wariness. Rick determined that he was either extremely close to the truth, or he was so far from it that he surprised the Dixon. After a second, he gave Rick a small, forced smile that did little for his misgivings. "Nah, jus' some stupid accident." He started walking again, pulling up his hood. "C'mon. Let's go."

"Did you twist your ankle when you fell?" Rick asked after him. Maybe the randomness of the question would reveal something.

"What?" Daryl asked, turning back around to face Rick.

"You're limping." He gestured down to his feet. Daryl's eyes followed his gaze, and a strange look came over his face.

"Yeah. I twisted my ankle."

Rick nodded and walked forward so that he was again walking next to him. "Let's go find Glenn."

Daryl didn't respond in any way other than to continue walking. Something kept Rick from breaking the silence between them, and not another word was exchanged between them as they continued their path to the theater.

Just as he had when he dropped Daryl off at the wrong house yesterday, Rick felt a creeping sense of foreboding that the Dixon was hiding something—something big. To his ultimate frustration and concern, he was unlikely to find out for a while, given the way things were going with Daryl.

He found that, despite his burning curiosity and worry, he didn't mind waiting so much.


	4. Chapter 4

All right, here's the fourth installment. I'll just answer any questions in the reviews here, because I don't really like how PMing works on this site.

To the-protective-chronicler, thank you for your compliments! I hope you won't be disappointed with what's to come. I chose 1975 because I wanted it to be free of the curse of our generation. I think that having it take place in the 70's makes it a lot more real, because it was the norm to go out and see people rather than just text them or talk to them on Facebook. I didn't want there to be that distance between the characters that would exist if I did have it take place in current times. While I could have chosen the early nineties or maybe the eighties, I have parents who grew up in the seventies, and, therefore, I know more about that generation than I do any other one that isn't my own. The stories they'd tell me about their childhoods are just too awesome, anyway, to pass up. In reference to the events in this fic and his reactions relating to Daryl's character in the show, there just aren't enough fics about Daryl's abusive childhood. While this is AU because of Rick's presence so early on in his life and the obvious romance that's going to occur, something like this is truly how I view Daryl's past. He went through some horrible things, and I'm going to bring even further light to it in future chapters. I'm not done tormenting this Dixon quite yet. . .

My thanks also go to vividRegulator, K. Lynn Perks, and no control16; your comments were very sweet! I'm so glad you're liking my story.

All right, without further ado, I present to you the fourth chapter of _Under the Law. _

* * *

"I told you, we haven't done anything!" Glenn insisted as Rick and Daryl couldn't help but begin to laugh. "We just started dating two months ago, okay?"

"Aw, come on. Ya didn't even get to second?" Rick asked, leaning his head back and looking at Glenn with his blue eyes. Rick'd suggested that they put down the seat in the back so Daryl wouldn't be isolated as they all sat in a circle in the extended trunk and talked. Rick had also proposed they go around to Glenn's when they hit half past eight, and Daryl got the feeling not for the first time that his mother was the strict type. Its owner was been reluctant to go inside the house when they arrived, so Daryl had quietly put forth the idea that they just chill out here for a bit. They'd been driving around aimlessly for a few hours, listening to random tracks that Daryl was surprised he liked. So it wasn't like it was strange to stay in the car for a little longer.

"You seriously telling me that you got to second with Lori in two months?" Glenn asked, cheeks red with embarrassment at the subject.

Daryl furrowed his brow when Rick's face fell at the mention of the cheerleader that even he had known as the school's recluse. His smile was back in place within seconds, but the he had seen the slip clear as day. "Nah, but that's just 'cause she broke up with me for Shane before two months," Rick said, laughing at the memory. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but Daryl didn't say anything. He sure had no place bringing up Rick's demons. And even though his dislike for Shane increased even more at the admission, he had to thank him for causing Lori and Rick to split up. From what he'd observed last, the chick was fickle, switching from guy to guy so that no one knew who the hell she was fucking. Rick deserved something better than that, whereas he didn't give a shit if Shane ended up with her.

"Who's keepin' who back?" Daryl asked suddenly, trying to get his mind back on Glenn's issue, and Rick and Glenn looked at him in surprise. He hadn't talked much this entire evening, choosing rather to listen and laugh at their conversations. But he was curious; Maggie was as popular as she was sweet and vivacious, and it bemused him. This was the only opportunity he had to see what she was like up close and personal.

"It's mostly me," Glenn admitted, ducking his head. "I just. . . We're really good right now, you know? I'm afraid that it'll ruin everything if we do anything. Like, she'll realize that she could have anyone in the school and dump me or something." He shook his head, a helpless smile turning up his mouth. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just being stupid."

Rick's smile fled his face, replaced by a look of sympathy. "She chose you, Glenn. That ain't somethin' to be taken lightly. I've never known Maggie to do anything she wasn't sure of."

"Yeah, man. She's had eyes for you since September," Daryl interjected, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Rick grinned at him appreciatively. "Always checkin' you out when you walked into class, askin' you 'bout your grades, working with you on projects when jus' about everyone in that class would die ta be in your place. She ain't lookin' at nobody else."

Glenn looked at Daryl in disbelief, a hopeful little smile taking the place of the dejected one. Daryl liked this one much better, and he couldn't help but give him a genuine smile in return. "You serious?" Glenn asked, running a hand through his dark hair.

He nodded gravely, and Rick said, "Don't be afraid ta tell her how ya feel."

"And if she don't feel the same, then I'm a damn squirrel," Daryl added, and Rick and Glenn couldn't help but start snickering at his words. He felt his body flush with warmth as he smiled reluctantly along with them.

"All right, I'll call her tonight."

Rick groaned. "You gotta do it in person! Jesus, Glenn. Do we have to hold your damn hand?"

"No. . ." Glenn looked around sheepishly before his eyes returned to them shyly. "But I wouldn't mind you pointing me in the right direction.

"It ain't rocket science, man," Daryl said, folding his arms behind his head as he leaned against the inner wall of the car. "Jus' take her out to dinner or somethin' and talk over some chicken and candles. Chicks love that shit."

Daryl wasn't speaking from experience, but he figured that his advice was sound enough. After all, he could take Merle's opinions and spew them at Glenn and Rick. That would sound a lot worse than anything he had to offer, lack of familiarity with the subject matter aside. And his two companions seemed to buy it, because Rick nodded and nudged Glenn.

"You heard the man. Call her and make plans for tomorrow night."

Glenn nodded, grinning unashamedly. "You guys are awesome, you know that? I will." He turned his head to glance at the clock glowing green on the dashboard and swore loudly. "Shit, it's nine o'clock?" He sighed. "And I have a test to study for on Monday. . . My mom's gonna murder me."

"Don't forget the eighty-eight you gotta show her," Daryl added helpfully, smirking as his acquaintance groaned loudly.

"Yeah. Thanks," he responded sarcastically, pulling on his jacket as he prepared to go out into the unrelenting rain. "See you later, Rick. Guess I'll see you in pre-calc on Monday, huh, Daryl?"

Daryl just tilted his head down in affirmation. "Study up. Ya don't want me doin' better on a test twice."

"And don't forget about Maggie!" Rick yelled at him as he ran toward his house, but Daryl doubted he heard him through the sound of the pouring rain.

Rick looked at Daryl once Glenn was safely inside his house. "Go hop up in front. I'll be there in a sec."

Daryl just did as he said, turning around to watch as Rick returned the seat to its previous position and clambered into the front next to him. "You wanna go home?"

He forced back a frown, and perhaps a plea to keep hanging out with him so he wouldn't have to. But his pride was too much, so he just looked away, saying, "Yeah, if you're done joyridin'."

Rick just laughed quietly. "Don't think I'm done just yet." Daryl glanced over at him when he heard the same subtle reluctance as he felt in the cop's voice. "I could go for a bite to eat, if you want. You hungry?"

Daryl was about to respond when his stomach rumbled loudly. When he met Rick's eyes, they both couldn't help but burst into laughter. "Yeah, I guess I am. What'd you have in mind?"

Rick rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I'm nearly broke payin' rent. . . Burgers and fries sound good?"

Daryl nodded and pulled a ten out of his pocket, tossing it over to Rick. "You're not gonna pay for me, y'know. Ain't some date."

"I wouldn't mind." Rick shrugged and put the bill in one of the cup holders, starting the engine and driving down the street.

"Yeah, whatever," Daryl responded dismissively. "After you see how much I eat, you won't be sayin' that."

Rick just looked at him briefly, eyes going down the length of his body. "Coulda fooled me." Daryl normally would've taken offense from the words, but the soft smile on his companion's face calmed him down effectively enough.

"When you're out haulin' ass in the woods, it ain't that hard to stay in shape." Daryl didn't mention the fact that he didn't usually have enough to eat anyway, especially in the winter. He still had some padding from the plentiful game during spring and summertime in the forest, but with winter drawing nearer, he would soon be back to skin and bones. Least he could hide the fact with bulky winter clothes. No one suspected anything if he was smart about it.

"Who taught you to hunt?" Rick asked, but he cussed when he made a wrong turn. "Son of a bitch. Can't see a damn thing with all this rain."

Daryl just laughed. "Ain't no rush, Sheriff. And it was Merle." He shifted uncomfortably. He knew his big brother would be a sore topic for a cop, but Rick didn't seem to judge him for his brother. He realized this with a bit of satisfied happiness. He wasn't his brother, and he had to admit it was nice to have someone acknowledge that. "Started takin' me out when I was eight. Think he regretted it when he realized I was better at huntin' than him."

Rick laughed, not seeming to mind the mention of his criminal brother. "What do you use to hunt?"

"Mainly my crossbow," Daryl answered offhandedly. "It was my tenth birthday present. Couldn't use it till I was twelve, though; my arms were too short."

"Seriously? Don't they size you for things like that?" Rick put his hand on the back of Daryl's seat so he could look back as he turned around in someone's driveway. Daryl couldn't help but look at the limb sharply, but when he realized that it wasn't moving from its place on the seat, he relaxed again.

"Merle said I'd grow into it. 'Ain't no use wastin' my hard-earned money on somethin' you'll grow outta in a year' s'what he said." Daryl laughed at the memory. That was the most comfort he got from his brother when he tried and failed miserably to use his present. "Or somethin' like that."

Rick just shook his head, smiling. "Guy's got personality; ain't no use denyin' that."

Daryl only nodded, tilting his head up and closing his eyes. He was tired and hungry, but the atmosphere in the car put him at ease. It wasn't something he was used to, and he was relishing in it.

"Shit." He looked over in confusion at Rick, raising his eyebrow.

"What?" Daryl inquired, taking in the frown on Rick's face, the creases between his brows.

"It's nothin'. I'm jus' low on gas, s'all. I know you're hungry, but we gotta stop for gas or we're never gonna get there—period."

"Do what you gotta," he responded, once again letting his head fall against the seat. "Doesn't matter ta me." He wasn't sure why Rick was so concerned. A ten minute delay was nothing, especially to a Dixon.

"Thanks," Rick said, and he pulled into a gas station. He pulled two fives out of his wallet and passed them over to Daryl. "You mind gettin' me five dollars' worth of gas?"

"Sure," he responded. "What's the other five for?"

"Get us some coke. It's cheaper here than at the restaurant," Rick explained, looking a little embarrassed. Daryl bit his lip to hide a smile at how Rick's decency went so far for him to feel embarrassed for saving a buck or two.

"All right." Daryl didn't bother to pull his hood up as he left the car. It would just make him look shady as hell, and the shadows that night cast would do a good enough job of hiding his bruises. And anyway, the cold rain, now just a softer drizzle, felt good on the swollen part of his face as it soaked through his hair and plastered the sodden locks to his skin.

He stuffed the crisp bills Rick had given him into his pocket to protect them from the rain as he walked toward the clerk of the gas station. He was debating on whether to get Coke or root beer when something gave a forceful tug on his arm, yanking him out of his path toward the clerk. His ribs burned in protest at the sudden movement, and Daryl made to rip his arm out of contact with whatever had grabbed him, but it had an iron grip. He turned around to face his assailant, his face tightened in a mess of rage, sure that it was just Rick fucking around with him. He was about to tell the cop exactly where he should shove his jokes when his eyes focused in on a face that certainly wasn't Rick's.

Daryl just stared at the ragged man for a minute, his eyes wide with sudden, paralyzing fear. His hesitation gave the man ample opportunity to pin him up against the wall with his thick forearm at his throat, and Daryl hissed as the ache in his ribs intensified. The pain shocked him out of his state of fear, and he glared at the man before him, rage boiling in his stomach.

"Git the fuck off me!" he hissed in a sharp whisper. It was the most he could do with the man's arm pressed against his windpipe like it was.

The man responded in no way other than to shove his hand in Daryl's pocket, fishing for the money he'd obviously seen him tuck away. He wanted to curse his stupidity; he should've concealed the cash when he was in the car, away from prying—thieving—eyes.

"What the fuck are you doin'?" Daryl demanded, struggling, even though it sent fire licking down his side. This asshole was taking _Rick's _money. The good sheriff who gave nobodies like Daryl rides home and took them to movies and out to dinner. He didn't deserve to be out for ten bucks because of some asshole.

The arm at his throat increased its pressure until Daryl could scarcely breathe, let alone talk. The pain in his ribs had made it hard enough to breathe even without some asshole trying to choke him out, and his vision was beginning to blacken. His hands raised to claw at the obstructing forearm, but his nails, chewed down to the nub by his own nervous habit, were entirely ineffectual against the man. He finally succeeded in fishing the money out of his pocket, and he held it out in front of Daryl's face, a mocking sneer showing his yellow teeth.

"Not a word to ya sheriff friend, ya hear?" he hissed, and his stale breath washed over Daryl's face. He wrinkled his nose and spat in the man's face, even though it really was a pitiful attempt.

The man's expression turned to one of sheer anger, and Daryl squeezed his eyes shut as his gloved hand closed into a fist around Rick's money, drawing back as his attacker prepared to hit him. He mentally steeled himself for the pain that was to ensue, his father's words from last night reverberating in his ears.

But the blow never came.

Instead, the man staggered backward, releasing Daryl from his asphyxiating hold. Choking and gasping for breath, Daryl slid to the ground, his legs unable to hold him up as his heart raced and his lungs heaved to supply his body with much-needed oxygen. He curled in on himself to soothe the pain in his ribs, and he finally raised his eyes in time to see what had become of his attacker.

The man lay curled up on the black, wet asphalt, gasping for breath as Rick towered over him, his face a mask of rage that Daryl could only be glad wasn't directed at him. He had a silver gun—a Colt Python, he remembered seeing at the station—trained on the man as he kicked him to roll him over, crouching down so that he could fix cuffs on his wrists with his free hand.

"You all right?" Rick asked him, eyes not leaving the man groaning in pain at his feet. He spun the gun around in his hand with a precise flick of his wrist and fingers, tucking it back into its holster. Daryl could hardly make the connection between the fun, lighthearted man from this evening and the one he was seeing now. He could see why that asshole Walsh listened to him; even Daryl wouldn't want to get on Rick's bad side.

"Yeah," Daryl wheezed after a minute, hating how weak his voice sounded. He pulled himself to his feet with a new determination, ignoring the protest of his ribs, and kicked the money out of the man's hand, still clenched in a fist. He took the bills and tucked them back into his pocket, keeping his hand safely curled around them. He wouldn't let anyone take the money that Rick had worked hard to earn. Not again.

Rick simply nodded and addressed the man at his feet. "My partner's comin' to take you down to the station right now, 'cause I don't plan on havin' the likes of you ruin my evening." Daryl recognized the tone he had used with Shane when he was being unnecessarily rough back at the police station. Briefly, he considered that perhaps he was the cause for Rick to become so fiercely protective, but he shook it away. Rick was a good guy, a good cop; he'd protect anyone who needed it—not just Daryl.

His attacker was sitting up, now, nursing the fingers that Daryl had kicked. Though the gloom that night cast made it hard to tell, he thought he saw bruises blooming underneath his jaw, and he felt heavy with the vicious satisfaction that ran through him at the thought that Rick must have hit the son of a bitch who jumped him. As he looked at the man, a wave of lightheadedness hit him hard, and his legs buckled underneath him again. He braced himself for the fall when he realized that he had nothing to hold on to, hoping his ribs would sustain minimal damage. But then something caught him around the waist, hefting him up and taking the weight off of his legs. His spinning head managed to realize that it was Rick who had his arm wrapped around him, and he instinctively leaned into the warmth of his body. Daryl breathed shallowly into the damp jean shoulder of Rick's jacket to avoid hurting his ribs further, and he squeezed his eyes shut at the nauseating dizziness that stole over his head.

"Hey, it's okay," Rick's voice sounded somewhere above him, and it snapped him back to his senses. He tugged himself out of his friend's hold, even though his legs were still shaky, still managing to flush red with embarrassment.

"I'm fine," he rasped. _God, _his throat hurt like a _bitch_.

"Daryl—

"When's your asshole friend gonna be here?" he interrupted, wanting to change the topic. The concern in Rick's eyes didn't go away, but he left him alone, and Daryl was relieved.

"This town's too small for it to take much longer," Rick responded, squinting his eyes to try and read his watch. Just as he finished his answer, red and blue lights flooded the area, and Rick rolled his eyes. "Such a melodramatic bastard. I told him it wasn't a big deal, and what does he do? Go full on swat team."

Daryl didn't respond—mostly because his throat was hurting too much for him to talk coherently. God, that fucker really could've killed him. He got damn close, if the swelling around his neck was any indication. He was rubbing the marred skin when the fact that Shane was going to join them in a few minutes suddenly hit him. Filled with a sense of foreboding, he walked back over to the brick wall that he'd been pinned up against, once again sinking to the ground. It was easier for him to manage his spinning head and his throbbing side in this position, and maybe he could avoid another confrontation with Rick's douchebag of a partner.

"What happened?" he heard Shane ask Rick, and he kept his eyes downcast, forearms balanced loosely on his knees. He didn't want to hear the story told again, and he tried to focus on breathing evenly, even though it felt like shards of glass were stabbing into his side with every full breath he took.

"Hoss jumped him and tried to take some cash." He could feel their eyes on him, but he kept his head down. If Shane didn't recognize him, there would be no reason for him to engage contact. "Choked him, too. Might've finished the job if I hadn't come when I did."

Daryl's face burned in shame as he was reminded of how helpless he had been, saved only by Rick's intuition and good timing. He tensed and tried to make himself smaller as he heard Shane—he knew it was him from the heavy, purposeful steps he took—approaching him. The image of steel-toed boots kicking toward him flashed before his eyes, and he closed them and took a shaky breath, even though he didn't like having the man in such close proximity while he couldn't see. Having Shane recognize him would make it a thousand times worse. They already weren't on the best of terms from their last meeting, and neither of them cared to change that, he was sure. But Shane, a surprising aura of concern surrounding him, crouched down in front of him, and Daryl couldn't react fast enough to turn his face away. The cop stood up straight again, towering over him, an air of menace that hadn't been there before replacing the worry radiating from him.

"Well, I'll be. It's that Dixon kid. You sure he ain't his accomplice or some shit?"

Daryl was enraged at the accusation, but he still felt too weak to voice it. He managed to raise his eyes to glare venomously at the cop from under his sodden blonde hair, channeling as much as his anger as he could into it. But Shane just laughed, looking back and forth between Daryl and his assailant. "Gotta say, it's fittin'."

Suddenly, Rick appeared behind Shane, tugging him away from Daryl like he had in the police station. "Get away from him," his friend hissed, pushing Shane up to the wall adjacent to the one Daryl sat against. "I'm sure, because he was with me, and it was my money that asshole was tryin' ta steal. Now, I called you here to do a job. Why don't you fuckin' do it instead of harassing some kid who's never done you any wrong?" Rick released his friend as if burned, the twist of his mouth revealing his disgust. "And you wonder why the guys at the station call you rookie."

Shane opened his mouth to respond, but the look Rick gave him seemed to change his mind, because his jaw snapped shut. He looked down, yanking the man Rick had cuffed to his feet. " C'mon; get up."

He turned to walk away when Rick called after him, "We talked about this this _morning, _Shane. What the hell's wrong with you?"

Daryl looked up at this. Had Rick honestly told off the man who was obviously close with just for being a dick to him? He wouldn't believe it, but that could be the only explanation for Rick's words. And when Shane turned around, the look he gave Daryl almost confirmed it. It was burning with anger and, if Daryl didn't know better, he'd swear there was jealousy there, too. But then Shane looked away and continued walking, not responding to Rick's question as he took the arrestee to his car.

The tension seemed to seep out of both Daryl's and Rick's bodies simultaneously when Shane had rounded the corner and disappeared. He saw Rick take a deep breath, hand going to his brow as he tried to collect himself. Daryl watched him, bemused, as he tried to figure out what had him so distressed.

"Daryl. . ." Rick was staring at him, his blue eyes vibrant against the dark curls sticking to his forehead. Their depths were unreadable, and he broke eye contact and began to mentally prepare himself for the heated reprimand he knew was to come. He could take this; he'd dealt with a lot worse. God knows his old man would do a lot worse than yell at him.

"I'm sorry." Daryl's eyes snapped up, body going stiff with shock. "God, Daryl, I'm so sorry."

He just stared at the man, waiting for this act—that was what it had to be—to dissipate and be replaced with the wrath he'd been expecting. But Rick just kept watching at him, and Daryl suddenly recognized the emotion he'd been unable to decipher in them. Guilt.

"What for?" he responded, unable to make his voice louder than a whisper. "Almost losin' your money?" He wanted to add the fight he'd indirectly caused with Shane, but something told him not to breach that particular topic.

Rick looked at him in disbelief. "The money? What the hell, Daryl?" he asked, and his voice rose in volume. Daryl cringed. Here it was. The anger. But Rick's eyes just filled with guilt, and he softened his voice as he continued, "I don't give a damn about the money. That guy. . . He coulda killed you."

"So?" The word was blurted from his lips before he could stop it, and Rick looked absolutely staggered.

"'So'? Jesus Christ, Daryl!" He took a step forward, hand outstretched beseechingly, and Daryl twitched backward for the second time, the fear that Rick would try to grab him flooding his mind. Rick's steps faltered, and he stayed a safe distance away. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. Just. . . Let's get you back to the car, okay?"

"What are you gonna do?" Daryl asked.

"Still gotta get us some gas and pop, don't I?"

The Dixon looked up at that, eyebrows furrowing. "We're still goin' out ta get some dinner?"

"Yeah, of course. What, y'think I'm gonna let somethin' like this happen and then take ya home hungry? No way." Rick smiled and offered a hand to help Daryl stand. He took it hesitantly, and he was a bit frustrated with the fact that it was mostly Rick's strength that brought him to his feet.

They didn't say anything as they walked back to the car. Rick must've noticed how unsteady he was, because he stayed nearby, his arm half-outstretched, as if he was ready to catch Daryl if he missed a step. His pride was injured at the gesture, but he had to admit he was glad the extra support was there. Daryl's throat was hurting more and more as time went on, and the swelling wasn't doing anything to help him calm his breathing, which was still a little ragged.

Once he was safely in the passenger seat of the car, Rick leaned down to say, "Be right back. Just sit tight for a few, all right?"

"Ain't no fuckin' baby," Daryl muttered in response to Rick's coddling.

But his friend just laughed. "Never said you were. Jus' let me make sure somethin' like that never happens again my own way, okay?"

Daryl didn't respond in any other way other than to slouch lower in his seat, chin resting on his chest. He heard the door shut gently, and he was alone. He tried to resist the temptation to watch Rick in the mirror to make sure that he was staying nearby, but his eyes anxiously slid to the reflective material anyway. The uneasy knot in his chest loosened somewhat as he caught sight of the slender policeman standing in front of the clerk. He watched as Rick pointed at the car so the clerk would know which station to run up the money on. The cop shifted his weight from one leg to the other when the counter worker ducked beneath the desk, reappearing a moment later with two bottles of Coke.

He discreetly watched as Rick walked back, bottles tucked under his arm, the swagger in his steps sending off a clear message that he was not to be fucked with. He wasn't a particularly big man, but he was lean and fit, clearly entirely made of corded muscle and skin and bones. Though the gun barely concealed on his belt was incentive enough to leave him well alone, it was the look in his eyes that was the real deterrent, he thought. They glinted like chips of blue ice, watching the scene around their owner like the hawks Daryl would see circling in the sky during a hunt. And even though the rain had Daryl's hair sticking up in random directions as a mixture of frizzed fluff on top and soaked strands underneath, the moisture just slicked Rick's dark hair against his head, the curls licking at the curve of his neck. He still didn't take his eyes off of the man as he began to fill the car with gas, sure that Rick wouldn't see him staring him down, his eyes busy watching the amount of gas and price go up.

"You ready ta go?" Rick asked him. He'd been so caught up in his observation that he hadn't noticed when the cop'd returned to the car. He felt his cheeks flush when he realized what he'd been doing as he watched Rick walk back and get the gas, and he didn't look up as he took the pop that his friend offered.

"Yeah," he responded quietly, unable to meet Rick's eyes. "Thanks."

"You still worryin' about the money?" There was concern in Rick's voice, and Daryl just shook his head. He didn't even want to think about what had him so quiet, let alone talk about it.

Rick seemed to sense this, because he changed the topic. "All right, I know a cool little place. You wanna eat in the restaurant or in the car?"

"The car," he responded immediately. He'd have to wear his hood again if they went into a lit area, and he really didn't want to do that. No doubt his throat was bruised, and he wouldn't be able to deal with the attention that would draw to him.

"Okay," Rick said, and Daryl was relieved he didn't ask him for details about his choice. He seemed to be good at that—knowing what to and not to ask when it came to him. He was painfully used to Merle and his inability to shut his mouth even when Daryl was especially riled up. He guessed that was part of the reason his big brother acted that way.

They drove in silence for five or so minutes before Daryl finally plucked up the courage to address something he'd been wondering since he'd met Rick in the police station yesterday. "You good friends with Shane?"

Rick tightened his jaw a bit, and Daryl realized that he was biting his cheek. "He's been like a brother to me since we were kids. My earliest memories have him in 'em."

"Then why did ya take my side over his?"

His companion sighed, like he was expecting the question "'cause it ain't a question of loyalty. He's wrong. Shane's a damn good cop, you know. But there's somethin' about you Dixons. I think your big brother reminds him of his old man."

Daryl looked over at him in surprise. "What d'ya mean?"

Rick just shrugged. "Mr. Walsh was big on drugs—violent and all that. Got dragged down to the station 'bout a million times for domestic abuse. S'why Shane was over my house all the time. His ma had to figure things out. But yeah, he left when Shane was ten. He was never really the same after that. I'm startin' ta think that me and my ma are the only ones who see the old Shane. And now we're wonderin' if that's even the case anymore."

Daryl scoffed, but he couldn't help the swell of pity that rose inside of him for the officer he so vehemently hated. It sure as hell didn't excuse how much of an asshole he was, but he knew what it was like to be in that environment. Hoss obviously didn't see how lucky he was to have the bastard leave so early on. Daryl'd be fucking peachy if he'd had that good fortune with his own dad.

He looked back at Rick, and any derision he'd felt for the man's friend fled. His face looked so strained and lost, and Daryl wished that he could fix it. "He's just always pushin' me, y'know? Like he's purposely doin' things just to get a rise out of me. I know it ain't his fault, but. . ."

"That's bullshit," Daryl suddenly said.

"What?"

"Nothin' gives 'im the right to be like that." Daryl crossed his arms over his chest. "What, he has the right 'cause you have a normal pancakes-on-Sunday family? Because your old man played catch with you and taught ya how to ride your first bike?"

An expression of pain came over Rick's face, and Daryl wondered if he'd gone too far. The anger that had filled him at Rick's words left him, and he slumped back against the seat, looking down at his folded arms. He was hoping that his friend would pretend that he hadn't said anything when Rick replied. "Yeah, I had all that, 'fore my dad died." Daryl looked at him in shock, and Rick sighed shakily, eyes firmly staring ahead at the road. "Complications with a surgery to remove a bullet after he got shot on the job. Seems like Shane forgets that I lost my old man, too—not long after he did. And he _was _all those things you said."

Daryl shifted around in his seat uncomfortably. He never learned how to deal with this kind of thing. How was he supposed to comfort someone who'd lost his father? He couldn't even imagine what losing that kind of person in his life would be like. His dad sure didn't make the cut, and Merle wasn't there enough for that to even apply. But then he remembered his ma. Always drinking and smoking away the pain from the broken bones and bruises her husband punched into her, but she never raised her voice to him. Even let him crawl into her bed when his old man was off with his drinking buddies, stroking his hair. Careful to avoid the bruises they both bore. That was what he missed the most after she went up in flames because she was smoking in bed. At least before the boiling rage at her set in. For never protecting him, for never just picking him and Merle up and leaving her deadbeat husband. For giving up and letting herself die and leaving her sons behind.

"I lost my ma when I was six," he said, since it was the closest thing he had to say to connect with Rick. Even though he knew it was hardly the same thing, because Rick probably didn't hate his father for sins he hadn't understood before he died.

It was Rick's turn for his eyes to flicker to Daryl in surprise and sympathy. "What happened?"

It was stupid for Daryl to not expect this question, but he still waited a moment before replying. "Fell asleep with a cigarette. Or she was too drunk to care if it lit the house up." He hadn't meant for his words to come out so angrily, so bitterly.

"I'm sorry," Rick said, and Daryl could tell he meant it. And as simple as the words were, Daryl finally knew what to say to Rick.

He hummed in appreciation of Rick's condolences before responding with, "Sorry about your dad."

Daryl knew he couldn't hope to sound as sincere as the man sitting next to him, but what he did know was that he meant it with his all. And when Rick gave him a small smile that hardly turned up his full lips, he returned it genuinely—because it told him that his gesture hadn't gone unmissed.

* * *

When Rick reported for his shift at eleven, there was only one man there, a new recruit from two weeks ago who was a year younger than him. He realized that he was the senior officer here, and that would make the four hour shift he had to fulfill much easier. Even though he was liked a lot more than Shane, some of the older officers still made a habit of messing with him, and there was very little he could do about it without making the situation worse.

"Alex," he greeted as he walked in, nodding at the rookie.

"Oh, hi, Officer Grimes!" he said, and Rick smiled at his excitement. He knew this kid idolized him ever since he took him out to check out a suspected burglary last week. He imagined it was because Rick refused to give in to the typical meanness senior cops indulged in with the novices, and he was the only older officer to not give him a hard time. He'd even let him go in first and talk to the suspects while Rick handled the more low-key duty of talking to the store owner. It'd given him a good idea of the kid's abilities, and it was better to find out on something less serious like this little incident rather than when he had people shooting at him. And Alex was coming along nicely, even if he was a little overzealous.

"Aw, Alex, I ain't that much older than you. Jus' call me Rick, okay?" he said, leaning against the front desk.

"Sure thing," Alex responded, but Rick knew he'd forget the next time he saw him.

Rick shut his eyes, wishing he was in bed. But then he remembered that he still had to cart all the boxes he had begun packing after his discussion with his mother on the day of his graduation over to his new apartment, and that he didn't technically _have _a bed. His fixation switched over to the couch in his ma's living room, the old piece of furniture seeming a lot more hospitable from this perspective.

"Hey, Officer Grimes?" Alex asked after a few minutes, and Rick shook his head fondly. This was a new record for Alex to forget to call him by first name. But the newbie handed him some coffee, obviously having noticed Rick's consistent yawning since he walked in, so he let it slide.

"What's up?"

"Officer Walsh brought in some guy mad as hell earlier," the rookie said. "I tried ta get him to tell me what happened, but he wouldn't say anythin'."

"Yeah, so?" Rick asked, running a hand through his hair. He didn't want to think about the whole incident; it just filled him with rage, and anger always made him feel sick and wasted afterward. Not to mention he had a shift with Shane _tomorrow_, for Christ's sake, and the guy wasn't pleasant when he was pissed off.

"Well, you were the one who called him in ta get the guy, right?"

"Sure was."

"What happened? Come on, I've been here for hours. I need a good story."

The image of Daryl, pinned against the wall, ashen face turning red as he struggled for air, fingers scrabbling at his attacker's brutish strength, flashed before his eyes. The anger he had felt when ripping the man away from Daryl filled him, and the excitement fled from Alex's face as his eyes met Rick's.

"A good story?" Rick asked, his voice a flat, deadly calm.

"I-I didn't mean. . ."

Alex scrambled to make an excuse, but he was having none of that. "You want me ta tell you how I hardly got there in time to save my friend from bein' choked to death for ten dollars by that asshole in the next room?"

"No, I just—"

Rick stepped closer, the kid shrinking back as he loomed over him. "You wanna hear about how my friend apologized to _me _for almost losin' my money when he was a second away from losin' his life?"

Alex looked close to tears as he backed away from him, and Rick pinched the bridge of his nose to try and calm himself, to remind himself that this overexcited kid wasn't the enemy. "Look, I jus' don't wanna talk about it. That okay?"

"Y-yeah, sure." But Alex wouldn't meet his eyes, and he knew that any respect he received from the kid from here on would be out of fear rather than admiration. He sighed at the thought, but he was too tired to try to make things right between them.

Calmed down, his mind drifted to the man that was just a few yards away from him. The son of a bitch who had hurt Daryl. Almost killed him. He was going to have to look to see if there was any way to charge the man with the assault without involving Daryl any further. After all, he was an eye witness. Maybe his word would be enough to get him in jail for a decent sentence time.

"If anyone asks, I didn't leave this room," Rick called over to Alex, who was reading a comic book.

The rookie looked up in surprise, but his eyes quickly fell as he nodded. "I won't say anythin'."

Rick smiled his appreciation, but Alex didn't see it, too busy pretending to read his comic book. So he just left, heading over to the holding cells, sipping at his coffee. He noticed that Alex had memorized exactly how he liked it, and guilt for his outburst a few minutes ago rose in him anew.

The remorse left him quickly when he laid eyes on the occupant of the first cell, snoring loudly on the bunk. He pulled his gun out of its holster, snapping it open to begin cleaning the pieces. The loud crack woke the man up with a start, and his wild, bloodshot eyes searched the area outside his cell before focusing on him with intense dislike. Rick kept his eyes on the gun, slowly dismantling it, the clinking of the metal pieces echoing around the room.

"The fuck d'ya want?" the man snarled. "I'm sleepin'."

"And I'm cleanin' my gun," Rick responded. "Any other smart observations ya wanna make?"

"Fuck you."

Rick just smirked, but there was no humor in it. He continued taking the gun apart until it was entirely disassembled, and then he began to pretend to clean the pieces, because it really wasn't in need of any maintenance. He was well aware of the man watching him from his cell, but he didn't acknowledge him in any way. He started to put the gun back together once he'd finished his mock cleaning and hid the magazine in the pocket of his coat in a way where the man wouldn't see. The gun was back together with a few more metallic clicks, and he raised it lazily, pivoting it around in his hand so that he and the man could watch the light glint off of the reflective metal.

"Gun looks clean enough," the guy said, impatience in his voice. "Why don't ya leave me be?"

He didn't respond as he inspected the gun, turning it slowly until it was finally pointed directly at the brute sitting across from him. He wasn't looking at Rick, so he drew back the hammer, the click of it bringing dark eyes to rest on him. Rick got the desired reaction as the man jumped backward, back against the concrete wall,

"The hell, man? Don't point that thing at me!" he shouted, but the anger in his voice was nullified by the tremor of fear Rick could hear in it clear as day.

Rick just stared him down, watching the man's eyes widen with fear when he realized that he wasn't backing off. "Hey! Did you hear me?"

"Loud and clear," he responded, the gun still not wavering in its position in the air. Taking one more moment to relish in the unadulterated panic on his face, he pulled the trigger.

The man yelled out and jumped to the side, trying to avoid a bullet that had never left Rick's gun. He looked at Rick in furious confusion, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out the concealed magazine, holding it up for the terrified guy to see. A smirk pulled at his lips when a mixture of rage and relief took over the man's expression, and he slid the clip back into the firearm.

"You fucker!" he panted, falling back onto the bed as all the terror-wrought tension seeped out of him. "What the fuck was that all about?"

Daryl's terrified face came into his mind at his question, and Rick hardly kept his anger at bay, speaking in a quiet calm that he knew was more effective than a full-blown yell. "I wanted you to know how my friend felt when you had him pinned up against that wall. I wanted you to know what it was like, lookin' into my eyes, knowin' that I could kill you without a second damn thought."

"What the fuck, man?" he asked, and Rick knew he'd written him off as crazy. He smiled at the thought. It would be easier to fuck with him if the guy thought he was slightly unhinged, unpredictable. "Ain't it enough that ya fuckin' arrested me? Kicked the shit outta me, too."

"No," Rick responded. "'cause you're probably gonna get out of this place in a few days, even if I try to get you in lockup for a good while. Even though you were ready ta kill someone, and might've if I hadn't been there."

He just scoffed, chewing at a hangnail on his thumb with yellowed teeth. "What the fuck is it with you and that fuckin' kid? He your rent boy?" Rick was sickened at the thought, and the man waggled his eyebrows obscenely. "Or maybe he's jus' your boyfriend."

Rick looked at him in astonishment. _Boyfriend? _

"Oh, that's it, ain't it? He's your fuckin' boyfriend!" the man crowed. "Shoulda known you were some fag. Ya think he'd take twenty bucks for a good fuck?" He thought for a moment, and Rick was stunned by the indecency. "Probably won't even need ta bother, if he likes it up the ass."

Suddenly, what the man was saying hit him, and Rick stood up quickly. He clenched his teeth in rage as he grabbed the laughing bastard by his dirty shirt and slammed him against the bars, his now fully-loaded gun pressed against his temple through the cell door. The man grunted in pain, his breath rasping in quick little breaths near to Rick's face. "You listen, and you listen good. If you so much as look at him again, I will not _hesitate _to pull the trigger. You understand me?"

The man's laughter subsided immediately as he stared at Rick in cowardly terror, all mockery gone from his expression. "Do you understand me?" he repeated, louder, and the man just kept gawking at him with dumb fear glazing his eyes over. He held his position, gripping the man uncomfortably up against the bars, eyes boring into his. Even when the man gave a petrified nod, he didn't let him go, choosing to let the fear emanating from him resonate in the air. He waited until it saturated the room, the atmosphere thicker than water with tension, until he finally tore his gun away and shoved the man's body from him. His burly form collapsed to the ground and he called out a muffled cuss, but Rick was already storming away, his boots hitting the stone floor in a rapid staccato.

Rick felt like he was filled to bursting with hot rage, viscous as magma, as the man's words replayed in his head. After seeing Daryl pinned like he was back at the gas station, his mind didn't find it hard to imagine what that sick fuck had suggested, and he felt bile rise in his throat. He stopped short in the hallway and screwed his eyes shut, hand against the wall as he fought the nausea that came over him, breathing heavily through his nose, mouth tightly clenched shut. He knew that the guy was just trying to get a rise out of him—so why did he let it happen? The image of anyone touching Daryl that way gave him the irrational urge to punch something, and he tightened his hand into a fist where it was braced at the wall. Be it that fucker back there or Maggie's giggling, freshman sister, Beth, Rick couldn't bear the thought of having anyone even _think _of Daryl like that.

Then the confusion that followed this vehement revelation hit him. Why did he even care? He'd met Daryl little over twenty-four hours ago—nearly gotten him killed, too. For the millionth time that night, his mind flashed back to when he saved him from his mugger. And then he thought of how he'd protected him from Shane both times his friend and Daryl had the misfortune of meeting, and he shook his head. He'd always prided himself in being a calm individual who scarcely had the need to resort to raised voices or fists. It was something that set him apart from Shane, something that made him seem so much older than his years. And, yet, that rationality had fled him the minute that that nobody kid—a _Dixon, _for Christ's sake—came into the picture. But . . . what the hell did that even mean?

_Or maybe he's jus' your boyfriend. _

Rick's eyes snapped open as he recalled the jibe the man had shot at him. He'd forgotten it in his anger at the other obscenities that'd left his mouth, but the weight of the words suddenly crashed down on him. Daryl, his boyfriend? Rick felt a creeping warmth come over his chest at the thought, and he forced it down as quickly as it'd come. That couldn't be what it was. He and Daryl were just friends—just like him and Glenn. He'd just never been in the kinds of positions with Glenn like he'd been with Daryl. It was all just bad luck that the Dixon seemed to be a magnet for trouble that Rick had to haul his ass out of.

Nodding to himself at the logic in his words, Rick shoved his hands in his pockets more violently than necessary and continued walking down the hallway to rejoin Alex. But as he felt the heat from before creeping back from its quarantine to curl up in the middle of his chest, he found it hard to believe his own excuse.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Well, didn't quite get as much feedback as I'd have liked, but I figured it wasn't fair for those who _did _review to not get an update. So, thank you, to all of you who deserve it, and here's the fifth chapter. This is a bit of an emotional one, so brace yourself. It's also pretty long, so a bowl of ice cream or a cup of tea wouldn't be a bad idea to indulge in whilst reading. Happy Rickyling!

**readaddict123, **Shane doesn't know that Daryl's being abused, and nor does Rick. I definitely think that it would make a difference in how he treats him, because he thinks that Daryl is just like his brother and, in turn, like his father—obsessed with drugs, violent, drunk all the time. But, he also isn't going to be happy when he finds out that Rick is so infatuated with Daryl. In this story, Shane's very reliant on Rick and his family. They make him feel loved, even if he's a right dick (to Rick, especially). I'm not even close to finishing this fic, anyway, so it could go in a variety of different ways other than what I have planned for outline of the plot. I won't give anything specific away, but it's safe to say that Daryl and Shane, for right now, aren't going to be getting along. Thanks for your review!

* * *

_The only thing that registers is his shaking hand, the whiskey in the glass his fingers are curled around sloshing unnervingly close to the rim. The bruises circling his wrist from when his father grabbed him in a crushing grip earlier sends agony licking up his forearm as he tightly clutches the liquor, trying to steady his shaky hand. But it doesn't work. The trembling only gets worse, and soon, half of the golden-brown liquid is spilling. Over his fingers, running down his arms, stinging something awful as it seeps into the cigarette burns mottling his skin. It cascades down the sides of the glass, and Daryl is transfixed by the sight, by the sound of the continuous drip hitting the stained carpet. But he tears his eyes away to raise them to look at the man in front of him, reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke. His lip trembles when he sees the glazed rage in his father's eyes, and he fights the urge to run. It's not like he has anywhere to run to, anyway. _

_He flinches when his dad smacks the glass out of his hand. The cup shatters against the wall, and he cringes at the clamor. The blow sends pain jolting through his wrist, and he's beginning to wonder if it's broken. But the worry flees his mind when the man stands up from his chair, towering over his small frame. He fixedly keeps his eyes on the ground, unable to keep his despairing tears back as panic clogs his throat. They flow down his cheeks, mixing with the spilled whiskey on the floor. He prays his father doesn't see them. He knows too well what he'll get if he's caught crying. _

_Daryl chokes back a whimper of terror when a thick thumb and forefinger grab his jaw in a bruising grip, raising his face up so his still-falling tears are obvious. As Daryl expected, his father's face contorts in rage, and he flinches when his hand clasps around his injured wrist, the pain caused by his tight grip eliciting a cry from his mouth. His father tugs him down the short hallway and throws him into his room. He pushes him against the far wall so that Daryl's forced to splay his fingers against it to stay upright. When he tries to turn around to face his father and whatever punishment he knows he's going to get, he's given only a curt word ordering him to stay where he is, to take his shirt off. So he does, even though he's confused, watching his hands tremble against the stained wall in apprehension after he's removed the garment. This is something his father's never asked him to do, and he's frightened, tears continuing to stream down his face even though they're the reason he's here right now. _

_Listening apprehensively, frozen with terror, he hears a metal clang. He's afraid what his father will do if he disobeys and looks around to see the source of the sound, so he stays still, biting his lip until it bleeds, eyes squeezed shut. His apprehension turns to unrestrained terror as his back explodes into agony. His eyes fly open and he arches his spine away from the direction of the assault, screaming out. He steals a glance over his shoulder, the threat of being smacked for defying his father suddenly seeming small compared to this pain. He sees his father, hand drawn back, clutching what he realizes is his belt, preparing to strike him again. Daryl's utterly cornered, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the leather strip raises up again. It bears down on his back as his father screams abuse at him. Tells him how worthless he is. Even with the unreal pain coursing through him, the words bite into him as brutally as the belt. _

_The pain is too much, and Daryl falls to his knees and curls up on the ground, hoping that he'll pass out, and, if he was lucky, not ever wake up. The belt still comes down on his exposed skin, and he can feel warm liquid spilling down his sides and hear it dripping onto the carpet, reminding him of the whiskey and tears that caused this whole thing. His throat's too raw from his screams to produce anything more than frightened little whimpers when there's no new pain, only the aftermath of what he's already suffered. Several minutes pass before he finds the strength to look around and investigate why the punishment had ended, sure that his reprieve could only be momentary. His teary eyes widen at the sight before him, because it's something he'd have never expected to see. His father, the one whose strength only Merle could ever stand a chance against, is curled up on the ground, similar to the position Daryl himself is in, breathing raggedly. His hands are tied with the same belt he'd used to beat Daryl, and there's blood at the corner of his lip. His eyes catch a flash of silver, and he recognizes a gun trained on his father's head. His gaze follows the length of the metal and up the arm that's holding it until it rests on the unknown man's face. _

_It's Rick. And the man underneath him is no longer his father, but his attacker from the gas station, and Daryl's not six anymore, but ten years older. The blood pouring down his back dries, the welts heal themselves up in the space of a thought. And he feels the agony of the knife his father decided to use when he got more creative with his punishments carving itself into his skin before that scars over, too. He's shuddering and crying when a warm hand cups his jaw, lifting his face skyward. He flinches, and his eyes rest on Rick's face, his mouth set in an unbearably sad expression. And the man kneels down, his knees squelching in the pools of blood collected on the floor. His strong arms envelop Daryl in a hug, one of his hands going up to cradle his head at the back of his neck. Daryl sinks into the embrace, squeezing his eyes shut as he rests his cheek on Rick's shoulder, breathing shallowly against his neck, tears soaking the fabric of his button-up shirt. His sobs come unfettered from his throat, Rick's soothing voice a mantra in his ears. He feels soft, cool fingers running up and down the raised scars littering his back, and he shudders underneath them. He doesn't recoil from the touch, for some reason. It feels like he's being healed, and he can feel the hurt and tears and screams imbued in them fading as Rick glides his fingertips over the scar tissue. Daryl raises his head slightly to look drowsily at the man, his limbs rubbery and lax despite the tremors racing up and down them. He blindly nuzzles his face into Rick's neck again, and he feels the man's nose poking and prodding at the fine hairs underneath his ear. His breath hitches and turns into a quiet whine as Rick presses his lips to the side of his throat, and he can feel the pattern of his lips as he repeats his apologies and reassurances. _

_Heat spreads from where Rick's mouth is on his skin, pleasant, at first. But suddenly it's all-consuming, uncomfortable as it intensifies. Within minutes, his blood feels like it's boiling, and his continuous whimper turns into a moan of pain. Rick makes a confused sound in his throat, and the reverberation that transfers to Daryl through his lips sends pain cutting amid his body. He slumps, arms slipping from their loose loop around Rick's neck, and he feels large hands catching him, hoisting him up. His eyes roll back into his head as a sudden bout of faintness hits him hard, and he smiles blindly at the concern he hears as Rick chants him name, over and over. Daryl, Daryl, __**Daryl**__. . ._

Daryl sat upright abruptly in his bed, gasping for air, but the pain in his body made him slump back into his pillow with a grunt. The first thing he noticed was that he was alone; Rick wasn't holding him. He felt a thrill of trepidation run through him as he realized this, and he tried to remind himself that he wasn't six years old anymore, that his father hadn't taken the belt or his knife to him in years. He panicked as he failed to get enough air, but he knew it wasn't just because of his strangling incident or the anxiety that his dream had caused. There was a viscous liquid at the back of his throat, and he couldn't breathe through his nose at all. It made it harder to keep his panicked mixture of sobs and gasps quiet, and hyperventilation was added to the mix when his head started to spin from the lack of oxygen. He coughed to clear his airway, and the harsh noise that grated out of his throat finally made his addled mind realize that he was sick—very sick. He'd felt a cold coming on when he tried to warm up under the blankets after Rick dropped him off and he still couldn't stop shivering, but he hadn't thought much of it. And his bones were still chilled, like cold fingers were running up and down his spine, even though he could feel a fever raging in his blood. He coughed again, but a drunken yell from the living room had him muffling the sound against his pillows, even though it added to his feeling of asphyxia. Terror at the voice made his mind blank; it sounded like it was straight from his nightmare. And he didn't have Rick, imagined or not, to vanquish his fear. The thought made him whimper in childlike fear.

He lay in bed, pooled in his own sweat dripping from his pores, closing his eyes and trying to focus on breathing evenly. The nightmare was one he had often, especially when he had a fever. At sixteen, he had no idea what was fact or what his terrified, child's mind had perceived. But he knew that not much was exaggerated. He had the scars to prove that much. Daryl shuddered; he could still feel the pain on his chest and his back burning from his relived memory-turned-nightmare. And the hollow, strength-sapping ache in his lower back that—to his dread—was a clear sign of a bad flu didn't help matters, either.

His mind disjointedly floated to other parts of the dream as sleep continued to evade him. Rick's appearance had been something new, and not just because he'd only met the guy two days ago. Usually, the dream ended when he finally passed out from the pain and perhaps the blood loss. He'd never dreamt of a savior before, especially not a fucking cop. It just wasn't something that would ever have reason to cross his mind, because even at a young age, he had known that cops didn't concern themselves with Dixons other than to lock them up.

And, what was more, he sure as hell never dreamt of anyone touching him the way Rick had.

Daryl remembered the feeling of his lips before that unbearable heat—probably indicative of the fever that was raging through him in reality—had overwhelmed him. After being raised by his father and Merle, he knew that his own imagination should disgust him. He was a Dixon, after all, and he wasn't supposed to be one of those damn fags his old man and, in turn, his brother hated. But, even as he told himself this, he began to wonder if Rick would feel that way in reality. Smooth yet sharp jaw fitting perfectly into the junction between the top of his neck and his head, lips that were far too red and full to belong to a man melded into his moist flesh. His lack of experience made it hard to know, but something hot pooled in the core of his stomach as he tried to answer his longing inquiry.

There was a creak somewhere in his room, and he jumped, eyes darting to locate the source of the noise, feverish mind half expecting his father to be standing there, knife glinting in the light seeping from the tiny television screen in the living room. He released the breath he'd been holding when he reassured himself that there was no one there, once again focusing on breathing through the phlegm he could feel in his throat and chest.

Tears pricked at his eyes when his mind returned to Rick despite his attempts to deter it. There was something wrong with him, he was sure. There _had _to be. That could be the only explanation for his dream, for the other things that had occurred between them. He would blame his fantasies on the sickness he was enduring, but his feverish mind smugly reminded him that he'd been checking the cop out in that gas station, and he was ashamed all over again, scrunching his face up as he tried to force back his hysterical sniffles. Now, with his mind vacant of its usual filters, vacant of anything coherent, really, he acknowledged it, didn't hide from it like he had when it happened. There was something about Rick Grimes that elicited a reaction the girls in his school just couldn't, even though a few of them were more than eager to try and seduce him. He snickered weakly through his tears, wondering what those same girls thought when he came into school with his, as they put it, pretty face a mess of purples and blues. Then he thought of how Rick had reacted to those same bruises in the movie theater parking lot, and he rubbed at the accruing wetness attempting to crawl over his eyelids. He didn't even want to think about how his concern made him feel warm and fluttery on the inside, because it was something Daryl'd never had before. God, how much he wanted to tell Rick what had happened, so _someone _could tell Daryl that it wasn't his fault, like the cop had when he'd gotten hauled down to the station because of his asshole brother. He had trouble reminding himself of that sometimes.

And even though he knew he'd get the shit beaten out of him—by his father or Merle, he could take his pick—he wanted Rick to kiss him. He gave a watery, delirious laugh at that, but _damn, _he wanted Rick to kiss him.

Daryl's mind began to ponder Merle's—or, God, his father's—reaction. He whimpered softly when his addled mind flashed the image of that knife before his eyes. Even if his old man had stopped that punishment, he didn't doubt that this particular information would make him resort to it again, even if it'd be harder to pin a sixteen year old down to the ground while he sliced his skin open. Hell, if Merle knew, he'd probably help him. It was too easy to imagine Merle kneeling on his arms like he had a habit of doing when they were kids while his father towered over him with his blade, and he tried to send the image to the back of his disturbed mind.

Honestly, Daryl just wanted his brain to shut the fuck up so he could go back to sleep and get over this illness as quickly as possible. Being sick in the Dixon household was basically suicide. The only thing his father thought he was good for was buying beer; if he couldn't do that, he might as well ask his father to beat the shit out of him. And the addition of his stupid thoughts about Rick couldn't mean anything good. With the way his mind was working right now, he could easily mutter that damn cop's name when he was sleeping, and he'd have no idea. And then his father would know, and the reprieve he'd been granted from the belt and the knife would be over. And Merle was probably in lockup again after the incident he'd involved Daryl in, and there'd be no way for him to stop his father from trying to kill him. And Daryl wasn't even sure if he would. His big brother hated gays as much as his dad did. Not to mention that Merle was entirely oblivious to how bad Daryl had it, a suspicion that was confirmed when he ran off to God knows where when he was eight. His big brother stupidly thought that he'd protected Daryl from the worst of the punishments, and he had no idea how wrong he was.

But he knew it'd get worse for him if his brother ever found out that he had those same scars. Merle would either go off on his father and make the son of a bitch hate Daryl more, or he would feel like protecting his baby brother had been a damn waste of time. He didn't want either outcome, so he kept his mouth shut and endured how much of a douche his older brother was. Didn't stop Daryl from resenting the hell out of him, even though Merle bore the same mutilation. The difference between them was that the older Dixon was proud of them. Showed them off like they were trophies, told the stories of how they came about just to prove that he'd been tough as nails since he was a just a kid. And that when the taunts toward Daryl came in, where he blamed protecting his worthless ass for being the reason all of it happened. And Daryl was absolutely ashamed. He didn't think that it made him stronger, having the seven bells knocked out of him and his body shredded by a belt and knife before he could defend himself. He didn't have the luxury of saying that it'd been because he was protecting someone else like Merle did. It made him angry that his brother was so flippant, just like he was about everything. Even if he and Merle had grown up in the same situation, they couldn't relate. Because even if his big brother was as damaged as Daryl, he didn't show it. He could be touched, meet people's eyes. Didn't have to apologize for every shortcoming, like he had when he'd almost lost Rick's money. Merle just didn't know what that was like.

Daryl muffled another ragged cough against the pillows, entire body being jarred by the movement, intensifying the ache he felt in nearly all of his muscles. He could feel the wetness collecting in the crease that was always under his eyes ever since he was a child. He was such a little bitch, crying like this. He just felt so shitty, and his mind was totally fried by his fever, which had to be significantly over a hundred. And he still had that ridiculous desire for Rick to kiss him, his hot hand rubbing circles around the place on his neck the man's lips had rested on in his nightmare.

He slowly, painfully turned over to rest on his uninjured side when the sweat accumulating between his shoulder blades became uncomfortable, eyes distractedly following the little rainbow sparks that floated around in the darkness. He reached out a leaden hand to grab a few, tucking them under his blanket so that they would be safe with him, maybe keep the nightmares away. Before long, he fell into a fitful sleep, nightmares filled with the clang of belt buckles and knives alongside the glisten of blue eyes and smiling red lips.

* * *

As Miss Anthony passed out their worksheet for homework, Daryl was forcibly reminded of how much he hated group work.

The teacher always acted like it was some treat, and everyone else seemed to think so, too. But that was because they all had people to work with and laugh about the latest party they'd gone to. It wasn't like Daryl wanted to do those things. He had better ways to spend his time than getting drunk and high while listening to loud music and playing stupid games, especially after he'd seen what such behaviors had done to his big brother. No, it just irritated the fuck out of Daryl, because it was constant noise that he found hard to tune out. Spacing out with his teacher talking was easy enough; it was just one voice. But with all the sheep in his classroom yammering away about their stupid lives, the task became much more difficult. Especially when his head still felt leaden, a constant ache that could drive him crazy running through it, because he was still sick. Everything was too loud and echoed strangely in his aching ears. But he was much better than he'd been all weekend, spending more and more time lucid, but that wasn't saying much. If he didn't already know what being near death really felt like, he would've thought he was on his deathbed. He would have had every reason to stay home today, but even going to school was better than being with his father for another day. His dad had only slapped him around a little over the weekend, nothing that was enough to bruise, thankfully, but consistently hearing how useless and worthless he was really didn't cut it as a day of rest. So he left early in the morning to ensure that he would make it to class despite the faintness he could feel every time he got up, let alone walked the two and a half miles to school.

"Hey, Daryl!" a voice called, and he raised his eyes from their blank stare at his pre-calculus homework his teacher had decided they could begin in class. He saw Glenn waving at him, and he raised his eyes to return his gaze coolly, not sure what the kid wanted. Sure, they'd hung out last Friday, but he didn't expect that to warrant him acting all buddy-buddy with him. He'd assumed that Glenn had put up with him only to be a good friend to Rick. "You wanna come work with Maggie and me?"

Daryl's eyebrows furrowed in surprise as he worried his thumb between his teeth, chewing on the skin around the nail. "What?" His voice came out terribly croaky and nasally, since he still couldn't breathe out of his nose.

"Come on over and work with us," Maggie repeated, big green eyes watching him beseechingly. Any plan to say no fled when he saw how hopeful she and Glenn both looked. He just averted his eyes and nodded, grabbing his books and going over to where they were seated. Glenn had already pulled a desk over to form a little cluster of three, and Daryl slid into the one that faced theirs, obviously sidled up close to one another.

"If you're stuck on somethin', you'd have better luck askin' Miss Anthony," Daryl muttered as he doodled absently in the margins of his paper.

"I bet we'd be fine, askin' you," Maggie countered, and Daryl got the feeling that the word about his ninety-three on the test versus Glenn's eighty-eight had spread. "But that still ain't why we called ya over here."

"What do y'all want, then?" He croaked out the question, still not raising his eyes from the paper. He felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny, and he coughed into his arm to give himself something to do. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maggie and Glenn share a concerned look at the barking sound that came out of his chest, and he wondered if they were worrying about getting sick.

"We're friends, aren't we?" Glenn asked, and Daryl grunted something that could either be a rejection or affirmation. Even Daryl wasn't sure which one. But obviously Glenn chose to take it as the second meaning, because he continued, "Friends work together on ridiculous math homework."

"Or, he just thinks you're pretty far out, if ya catch my drift," Maggie added fondly, her smile still managing to be pretty even when she was being a little shit. Glenn ducked his head and said her name in embarrassment.

He didn't respond, sniffling. He didn't want to talk. It just chafed his already sore throat. Maggie said, softly, the humor gone from her voice, "Daryl?"

"Hunh?"

"Are ya sick or something? You sound awful." Daryl couldn't understand the worry in her voice. There was no reason she should care. It was his own damn fault he got sick, anyhow.

He shrugged. "Ain't a big deal. Got here in one piece, didn't I?"

"You didn't walk here, did you?" Damn it. He forgot that Glenn had seen him walking home in the rain storm on Friday. Jesus, even the slight fever that carried over from his weekend was making him much less attentive than usual. He gritted his teeth in irritation.

"What the hell else was I supposed ta do? Wait for your pal Rick ta come and offer me another ride?" Daryl snapped. But he immediately regretted mentioning the cop at all. That was one topic he sure as hell didn't want to go into. It was bad enough that his fever dreams were filled with longing for the son of a bitch. For God's sake, how was he supposed to admit that he would've been fucking ecstatic if Rick had shown up at his door, magically knowing he was sick? He let out a bitter puff of air at the thought.

"Well. . . Yeah," Glenn admitted. "He would've done it."

"I don't need to be owin' nobody nothin'." _Especially not Rick. _Daryl went into defense mode, glowering at the two of them underneath his hair. His bruises had gotten better over the two days away from school, but he knew they made him look more dangerous, wild. He could see the two of them squirming under his glare.

"Just chill out, man, that's not what I meant." Glenn raised his hands in surrender, and Daryl let it go, tried to tell himself that the two of them were just trying to be considerate.

"Glenn got his car fixed," Maggie said tentatively, still seeming put off by his angry reaction. "We could—"

"Why can't all y'all understand that I'm fine?" Daryl asked, but the way his voice jumped in volume, his throat burning in protest, was more out of exasperation than anger. He looked around nervously when eyes were drawn to them, trying to make himself as small as possible.

"Okay," Maggie responded softly, reaching her fingers out to touch Daryl's, lax on the desk, reassuringly. The mind went blank for an instant as he watched her get closer in slow motion, jerking back with what he hoped was an inaudible whimper. Her pretty eyes widened at this, and he broke eye contact quickly. Her gaze fell, black lashes dusting her cheeks, and she bit her lip. "Sorry."

Daryl just nodded at her sheepishly, twirling his pen around in his fingers to try to vanquish how jittery he felt. "C'mon," he said brusquely. "Let's get this stupid assignment out of the way."

Maggie and Glenn both nodded, looking down at the homework. They both looked unbearably sad, and Daryl hated himself for it. They'd been so happy and hopeful when he'd come over, and he just killed it by just being himself. They were just trying to be nice, after all. How were they supposed to know that Dixons didn't even know what kindness was?

He would've said something, or, at least, he told himself he would've, if he knew what to say. He reasoned that people would be better off if they just ignored his existence. Rick, Glenn, Maggie, anyone, really—all of them were better off without him. His face wasn't all busted up for no reason, after all. It should be a warning sign, or something. Nobody would ever want someone like him, someone who couldn't earn the love of his own father or make his own mother care enough to stick around. Maybe that was the lesson his father was trying to carve into him.

* * *

Once they'd gone their separate ways to get to eighth period, Maggie pulled Glenn aside to talk nearby the wall. "Glenn. . ." She looked like she was fighting back tears. "I don't care what he says. He's not all right."

"I know. Maggie, I know." Glenn ran a hand through his slick black hair. "I don't know what to do."

"You need to call Rick," she said immediately, brushing away her tears, a sort of aggression in her movements. "He's gonna pass out if he tries to walk all the way back home. And I don't wanna think about what's waiting for him there." She shuddered.

"Wait. . ." He put her hands on her shoulders, looking seriously into her teary eyes. "What are you saying?"

"My dad. . . His old man—my grandpa, I guess—chased 'im away from home when he was fifteen." She swallowed thickly, fingers wiping underneath her eyes.

"And? Maggie, what are you saying?"

"That wasn't all he did. He beat him, Glenn. If anyone touches him all of a sudden, he flinches away without even realizin' it. Damn near has a panic attack when people raise their voices." She took a shaky breath. "All I'm tryin' ta say is that I know when someone's bein' hurt like that."

"And . . . you're saying that Daryl is?" Maggie was nodding, and he pinched the bridge his nose. Glenn didn't want to think about that being the case, even though it really did all make sense. What Howard had said, the omnipresent bruises, the flinching. . . He realized that anyone could have come to that conclusion, if they'd wanted to. He had just ignored all the warning signs.

"Maggie, this is some heavy shit," Glenn said, meeting her gaze again as he finished processing the new information.

"I can't stand by an' do nothin'," she said, folding her arms over her chest. "I jus' can't."

"We're not going to," he said firmly, hugging her close. "Let's go to the phone outside the office. I'm going to call Rick."

The relief in Maggie's eyes hardly reassured him. This new revelation about Daryl put this hollow feeling in his gut, and he doubted it would go away even after he called Rick. He took his girlfriend's hand in his and led her down the hallway briskly. They needed to give Rick some forewarning, or he might not make it to the school in time to get Daryl.

"You got any change?" Glenn asked, and Maggie nodded silently, pulling a silver dime out of her purse and pressing it into his palm. He slid the coin into the payphone and dialed the number of the station that Rick had excitedly asked him to memorize after he'd graduated from the police academy. It wasn't a hard feat, after all. Glenn had a thing for memorization. He only had to look at the number once before he knew it by heart. Maggie leaned in close so she'd be able to hear the conversation, too, her body tense against his.

"Hullo?" a voice answered on the other end.

"Hi, it's Glenn." Rick's fellow officers knew him from his frequent calls to his friend. He didn't wait for the warm greeting he anticipated from the cops who were all pretty fond of him. "Is Rick there?" Glenn asked, his cheerful voice not revealing how worried he was.

"Yep, right here. Hold on a sec." He distantly heard Rick's voice being called out, his own name mixed into the unintelligible words.

"Hey, Glenn. What's up? Your car break down again?" Rick asked jokingly, and Glenn wished it were that simple.

"No, nothing like that," he responded uneasily.

"Then what is it?" Rick sounded concerned now. "Are you okay?" So much for easing into the information. Glenn cursed how bad his deception skills were.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Rick, it's Daryl."

Silence.

"Is he all right?" When Glenn didn't respond, he repeated his question, his voice rising in volume. "Is he all right?"

"Yeah. Well. Kind of. I'm scared he won't be if we don't do something."

Rick had no patience for his vagueness, and Glenn could imagine him standing with his hand to his brow, his own nervous habit. "I'm gonna give you thirty seconds to tell me what's wrong," he said, the commanding tone he scarcely ever directed at Glenn injected into the words.

"He's sick, really sick. Like, he can hardly walk, sick. He plans to walk all the way home, and we're afraid something's going to happen to him. He won't let us help him out, and we didn't know who else to call. . ."

"'We?'" Rick asked.

"Maggie and me. And she just told me—" He cut off when Maggie suddenly jerked the phone away from his mouth, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.

"What the hell d'ya think you're doin'?" she hissed, her eyes green slits as he looked to her in bewilderment.

"I'm trying to tell him what you told me! Isn't that what you wanted?" He could hear Rick calling his name on the other end, but Maggie held the phone firmly out of reach.

"How would you feel if you were Daryl, huh? He obviously doesn't want anyone knowin' about what's goin' on at home."

"What? Why not? We can help him."

"Glenn, look at how he reacted to us jus' wantin' to give him a ride home. He wants ta keep everyone out. It's a common thing with kids in that type of environment. It took Daddy forever to tell Annette and me about what happened to him. Beth still doesn't know. He's never gonna trust us if we start airing his business around for anyone to hear. If Rick ever finds out, it has to be because Daryl trusts him enough to tell him."

"Then what do you want me to say?" Glenn asked helplessly, seeing the truth of her words.

"Anything!" she exclaimed, vexed. "Jus' make sure that he doesn't send him back there until he can take care of himself!"

She shoved the receiver back into his chest, and he raised it back to his mouth. "Ugh, sorry, I had to get a teacher off my back," Glenn said quickly, and he was thankful that, in his worry, Rick didn't seem to catch the blatant lie in his voice.

"What did Maggie tell you?" Rick asked, not seeming to be concerned, now that Glenn had come back. His thoughts were only on Daryl, obviously.

"She just told me that it'd be best if you took him back to your apartment." He knew how stupid and farfetched it sounded as he said it, but he had no idea what else to say.

His friend sounded as confused as Glenn had predicted. "Why? I hardly know 'im. I don't think he's gonna go for that."

"You gotta make him," he responded adamantly. "I don't think he's been taking care of himself. He's a mess."

"Glenn, I don't know. . ." There was hesitance in the man's voice, and he panicked.

"Look, this is important. Just make sure he doesn't go home."

Rick didn't respond for a minute. "Okay," he said quietly. "I got him."

The line went dead, and Glenn sighed, fingers raking back through his hair. He looked at Maggie, expecting to see his resignation mirrored. But there was only a soft, growing smile turning up her lips and the soft curves of her cheeks.

"What?" he asked, entirely bewildered. He really didn't think this was anything to be laughing about.

"He's totally head over heels for him," Maggie commented, smile widening. Glenn's jaw dropped.

"What?" he repeated.

"Aw, come on! When did they meet? Thursday? I know Rick's a good guy, but he wouldn't be doin' this unless he digged him."

"You're kidding. Rick likes _Daryl?_"

Maggie just continued to grin, a bubbly little laugh escaping her lips. "Kid's got a sweet face and an even sweeter personality. For Christ's sake, even Beth's obsessed with him. She's gonna be heartbroken when she finds out."

"You're actually serious?" Glenn was still in disbelief. "Rick and Daryl?"

Maggie just looked at him, and he started laughing. Laughing because he suddenly understood why Rick and Lori had broken up so quickly even though she'd been fawning over him for years. Because Rick's concern for Daryl in the car after the incident with Howard suddenly made sense. Because he knew that someone was going to look after Daryl, something that the kid in question wouldn't ever let him or his girlfriend do. Pressing his own smile to Maggie's, he drew back and said, "Praised be Jesus."

* * *

"It's the middle of your shift."

"I'll be back in twenty minutes."

"Rick, you can't just leave in the middle of your shift."

"Officer, with all due respect, this is more important. I know that my job is, too, and I would never shirk my responsibilities unless I absolutely felt the need. But someone needs my help. He could get hurt if I don't go. Ain't that what cops are really supposed to do? Help people? I can't sit here waitin' for an incident that's probably never gonna happen when there's someone who needs my help." Rick swallowed, trying to keep his voice from breaking with emotion. "Please."

Officer Hughes eyed him sternly, and Rick feared that he was still going to say no. But his eyes softened when they returned to the younger cop's face, and he nodded slowly, as if it was against his better judgment. "Twenty minutes. If you're late, I'm reportin' ya to administration."

"I won't be." Rick tried to smile, but his eyes ended up doing the conveying of his gratitude. Or at least he hoped they did. "I owe ya one."

As he walked out of the station, the cop looked at his watch and cursed. He had ten minutes to get to the school, and it would be easy to lose Daryl amid the mass of students eagerly trying to get home after what was no doubt a stressful Monday. He had hardly closed the door of his car before he had turned over the engine and he was starting to drive, peeling out of the parking lot like his life depended on it. Even though he drove fast, he drove carefully. There was no reason to act irresponsibly; Daryl would only be more negatively affected if something happened because Rick was being reckless on the road, and he couldn't risk that.

Something told him that he was worrying too much, that Daryl was just sick and he would be fine. But Glenn had been about to say something before he cut himself off, much bigger than Daryl suffering from some cold that would make it difficult for him to make it home in one piece. He'd been about to explain why he and Maggie suddenly thought that Daryl shouldn't go home, and Rick was burning with curiosity and worry. Was his father on some bender? Had Merle somehow talked himself out of trouble and given Daryl hell for ratting him out? He didn't know much about the Dixon household other than what he'd heard about the older brother from his superior officers. He knew that the father was no saint, but he'd never heard many stories about him. He couldn't think of what was making Daryl's house so unstable, and it was the not knowing that was killing him. And the fact that he'd driven the kid back to a place where he might not've been safe twice was eating at him. Even if he had the forwardness to ask Daryl, he doubted he would give him an answer. He could tell Daryl was frustratingly secretive.

As Rick parked in the lot of the school, he found that he was far too restless to sit and wait for Daryl. He was tempted to go in and seek him out once the bell had rung, but he had no idea where in the building he would be. It wasn't a large school, and chances were that Daryl would take a discreet exit to leave, but that was about all he could figure out. He sighed and leaned his head back against the headrest of the driver's seat. This was hard. He wanted to see Daryl, have him in touching distance just so he could make sure that he was okay. Rick cared about that kid—more than he should, he realized. He didn't know how, and he didn't know why, but it didn't matter. He cared, and it had his stomach twisting itself in knots as he went over every worst case scenario he could think of.

He anxiously watched the occupants of the high school stream out in masses, but as hard as he looked, he couldn't find Daryl. The flow slowly tapered off until there were a few stragglers, and Rick was beginning to worry that he'd missed him. He got out of the car to get a better view, stepping up into the vehicle and craning his head. He was about to admit defeat when he saw him, staggering out the main entrance with his head down, bare arms tucked close to him. It must've been forty degrees, and he didn't have a jacket. Rick cringed at the thought of him walking to school this morning like that when it was a good fifteen degrees colder. He fell into a brisk jog as he headed straight for the dejected-looking teen, subconsciously taking off his jean jacket as he drew nearer.

"Daryl," he called when he was within hearing distance. Daryl's head snapped up, and his body automatically tensed up, like he was expecting a fight. Disbelief colored his visage as he recognized him, and there was a hint of frustration flickering in his eyes as he appraised him. Rick didn't pay much attention to that, though, because the first thing he noticed was that he looked like absolute hell. His skin was pasty, the skin around his noise red and raw. He had darkly circled eyes, and even though his bruise had gotten much better since Friday, it still stuck out starkly against his white skin. At least the nasty coloring on his jaw was almost completely gone.

"Rick?" Daryl finally asked, and Rick winced at the scratchy noise that was Daryl's voice. "What are you doin' here?"

"Glenn called me," he said, and he was taken aback by the anger that came over Daryl's features, eyes downcast as he scowled wrathfully.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered. "I told him to leave me be."

"Daryl, you look like shit." Rick said bluntly. "If you won't take care of yourself, then someone has to. Glenn was right ta call me."

"I'm fine," he said, but his voice caught in his throat. He started coughing violently, doubling over as he tried to manage it, and Rick moved closer, his arm outstretched. Daryl jerked backward, watching Rick like a cornered animal. "I've had a lot worse, all right? You don't have to worry about me."

"You think I do this outta the goodness of my heart?" Rick asked, sighing when Daryl looked at him skeptically. Rick probably _did _come off as the type of guy who did this sort of thing for kicks. He pressed on, regardless. "We're friends, Daryl; friends take care of each other. It's not a burden, if that's what you're thinkin'. All right?"

Daryl just eyed him untrustingly, eyes bright with the fever Rick assumed he still had. His expression crumpled as he continued to sniffle. Rick wasn't entirely sure if it was just because he was sick. "Why?"

Rick tried to figure out what he meant, but he was at a loss. "Why, what?"

"Why do ya care? And Glenn and Maggie. . . All y'all met me less than a week ago. Why?"

"Because we like you," Rick responded simply, not needing to think about it. "Does there have to be more of a reason?"

Eyes shifting around nervously, Daryl shrugged, scuffing his boots into the dust on the sidewalk. He moved a little closer unsteadily, shivering in the cold air. "Fuck, I thought the south was supposed to be warm," he grumbled, awkwardly seeking out a subject change.

Rick reached around Daryl's shoulders to pull the jacket he'd removed around him, ignoring the way he tensed under his hands. Daryl looked like he was about to protest, but something in Rick's eyes told him to just accept the garment. He averted his eyes and put his arms into the sleeves, and Rick smiled when Daryl reluctantly went to zip up the jacket, probably to seal in the heat remaining from Rick's body. He knew that the jacket wasn't the warmest, but it would protect him from the bite of the air.

"Come on, let's get you back to my place," Rick said, putting his arm around Daryl's shoulders and beginning to lead him back to his car. The gesture could have easily seemed to be just an exchange between friends, but Rick really was just making sure that he could catch Daryl if he lost his footing. He could see the kid swaying on his feet when he'd been approaching him before; he'd be damned if he let him fall.

Daryl's reaction to Rick's words was delayed as he stiffened against his arm and refused to walk any further. "I thought you were jus' drivin' me home," he said, suspicion once again flaring in his pretty blue eyes.

Rick swallowed uncomfortably. Glenn hadn't given him any reason to take Daryl home to his apartment, but he knew that he couldn't send Daryl back home. Glenn had been too adamant for him to ignore his advice; he felt that, if Daryl went home, something bad would happen to him. And Rick would never forgive himself if Daryl was ever not okay. "My ma's makin' some soup tonight, her own recipe," he improvised quickly. "It's 'bout the best thing you're ever gonna taste, so I thought I'd bring you on over to have some."

The distrust didn't leave Daryl's eyes, even with how half-lidded with tiredness they were. "You could just let me go home and pick me up or somethin'."

Rick sighed. "Look, man, I ain't gonna lie ta you. You look like you've been through hell and back. Somethin' tells me that ya haven't been restin' up properly, and I wanna be able to keep my eye on you."

He knew it wasn't normal for friends to be so concerned, and, as much as he hated to admit it, he was taking advantage of Daryl's seeming lack of experience with having friends. If he was careful about it, he could make the kid believe just about anything. There was a bit of guilt for being a manipulative asshole, but he shrugged it off. If it meant Daryl would remain hale and whole, Rick found it hard to regret his actions. Daryl's wellbeing was more important than a clear conscience.

At this point, Daryl just looked too tired to protest, eyes sliding shut under their own weight, allowing Rick to lead him in the right direction. "Fine, have it your way. What are we gonna do before your ma has dinner on?"

"Well, I'm gonna go and finish my shift, and you're gonna sleep for the five hours that I'm gone."

"I ain't tired."

Rick just laughed. "Nice try. Next time, try to convince someone who don't have eyes."

Daryl smiled ruefully. "You win. When d'ya have to be back to the station?"

Rick checked his watch, paling as he read it. "Uh. . . Ten minutes, or they're gonna report me to administration."

"Jesus Christ, Sheriff," Daryl said, clearing his throat again and spitting into a sewage drain nearby. "We don't got much time. Let's go."

Rick grinned and continued walking, giving into the urge to rub Daryl's arm to try to fight off the shiver he could still feel running through him. Even through the fabric of his jacket, Rick felt the heat of his feverish skin, and he was concerned. The sooner he got Daryl to his mother, the better. All Rick had was his good intentions. But his ma had that, and the experience of a mother that would allow her to make Daryl feel better. And, despite his harsh exterior, Rick knew he needed it more than anyone he'd ever known.

* * *

Rick was quiet when he returned to his apartment, hoping that he wouldn't wake Daryl. Hoping that Daryl was sleeping in general, actually. He put his gun and holster on the table, rubbing his eyes. It was a long shift without having Shane to mess around with and pass the time. The son of a bitch was still pissed at him, and Rick was getting pretty damn close to just apologizing to make things right. But he refused to. He felt like it'd be a betrayal to his morals, and, even more, to Daryl. He'd never apologize for protecting that kid, because he'd never regret keeping him safe.

Thinking of Daryl, he set his crappy little kettle to boil and put a tea bag in one of his chipped mugs. From the way his voice had been sounding, Daryl desperately needed something to soothe his throat, and he still bought the tea his mother used to make him when he was stressing out over tests and projects back in his school days. She used to list the medicinal properties the stuff had every morning, and Rick still didn't know if it was actually true or if it was just a placebo effect. Either way, Rick thought that he had to at least try. He'd called his mother on his way back to the station after dropping Daryl off, asking her to make her homemade soup, because the story he'd told Daryl had been total bullshit. She was more than happy to comply when she wrestled the information that Daryl would be joining them out of him, and he hung up before she could finish her triumphant _I told you so. _

When Daryl still hadn't come out to meet him, Rick assumed that he was actually sleeping and he'd been successful in not waking him up. Now that he strained his ears, he could hear Daryl's breath wheezing in the other room, hitching as he tried to breathe through the congestion in his chest. Rick's heart clenched at the obvious sound of discomfort, and his feet automatically brought him to head toward the sound, to, if nothing else, make sure his friend was still breathing.

Expecting for the Dixon to be in his bedroom, he nearly tripped over him, curled up with a towel under his head on the bare floor of the main room of his apartment. He'd told Daryl to take his bed, but this was one piece of advice the Dixon had obviously ignored. He bit his lip at the sight, realizing that Daryl had to have been exhausted to be so deeply asleep in such an obviously uncomfortable position. He decided against picking the teen up and hauling his stubborn ass into his room; he just looked too peaceful, sleeping the way he was, for Rick to disturb it. So he sank to his knees beside the sleeping form of his friend, gently reaching over to brush his blonde hair out of his eyes. It was strange to see the kid like this. He looked younger, for some reason. For once, his expression wasn't guarded, and his eyebrows, usually drawn down over his eyes in anger or some other potent emotion, were lax on his face. His pink lips were slightly open as he gasped slightly for breath, since he couldn't bring any air through his reddened nose. His white skin was beaded slightly with sweat, his fringe of light blonde hair damp and sticky as it clung to his moist forehead. The worrisome tiredness Rick could clearly see on his face only deepened the pervasive lines under his eyes.

Bolstered by his deep sleep, Rick cupped the side of Daryl's face, tracing his thumb over the corner of his lips, down the line of his eyebrow, across the distinct curve of his cheekbone. He reveled in the fact that Daryl wasn't flinching away, that he could touch him like this without that awful fear taking over his expression. And, as he enjoyed the softness of Daryl's skin, he allowed his mind to acknowledge that Daryl wasn't just his friend. He'd sure as hell never do this with Glenn. Hell, he'd have never done this with Lori.

Suddenly, a deep whine came out of Daryl's chest, breaking Rick from his reverie, and the peaceful expression on Daryl's face dissipated. His brows scrunched together, creasing his brow, little whimpers spilling one after another from his mouth. Rick jerked his hand back, irrationally thinking that perhaps his touch was what elicited this reaction from the Dixon. But the lack of contact seemed to make his cries more desperate, and Rick quickly reclaimed Daryl's feverish face between his hands, shushing him, even though he knew that he was too deep in his personal terror to hear him. He ran his thumbs over the corners of Daryl's eyes, brushing away the tears that had accumulated there.

"No, no, no. . ." he pleaded, his voice sounding like it belonged to someone much younger.

"Daryl, you're dreaming," Rick said, desperately fighting back tears as Daryl's continued to spill down his defined cheeks, the body underneath him panting for air more desperately. He put his lips close to the panicking kid's ear, murmuring in a sharp whisper, "You're safe. You hear me? You're safe. Wake up."

He drew back from his murmured reassurances just as Daryl's eyes snapped open, vibrant blue depths glazed over with terror. There was no recognition in his eyes as he began to fight Rick's hold, fingers clawing at the hands that had been cradling his face. Rick refused to let go, fearing he would lose Daryl to his own mind. The little panicked sobs that escaped Daryl's throat pierced Rick like a knife. Whimpers of pain were added to the mix when he twisted his body at an extreme angle, and Rick looked down in panic to see what could be causing it. Daryl's tee-shirt had ridden up his stomach, revealing a strip of smooth, ghostly pale skin. Right where his shirt ended, he could see a healing bruise over his ribs. Before he had the time to investigate, Daryl, softly and hardly audibly, sobbed out his name. Rick forgot the bruise immediately as his eyes returned to Daryl's face, relieved to see that he at last seemed to know who he was. Daryl's hands fisted in his shirt, tugging him closer, and Rick realized after a second what he wanted. He wrapped his arms around Daryl's smaller form, hoisting him up gently so that his head and shoulders rested against his chest. Daryl buried his face into Rick's upper body, still whimpering and shaking and crying. And Rick just held him, rocking him back and forth, telling him over and over again that he was there, that he wasn't going to let anything happen to him. After a while, his sobs quieted until all that was left were muffled little hiccups as he tried to calm himself down. Rick rested his cheek against Daryl's silky hair, squeezing his eyes shut as he, too, tried to cope with Daryl's hurt.

The tight hold on his shirt loosened as Daryl pulled away from him slightly, and Rick was surprised that he didn't jump away like he had at the gas station when Rick'd caught him after he'd nearly fainted. He just sat there, trembling passively as he breathed shallowly through his mouth when he failed yet again to get any air through his clogged nose. Rick rubbed his back softly yet firmly, trying to soothe his symptoms and comfort him at the same time. His other hand went to bury itself in his mass of blonde hair, and Daryl leaned into his touch, a little whine escaping his throat.

They both jumped when the kettle started whistling shrilly, but Rick shushed him, hand moving over his ear to muffle the piercing sound. "I was gonna make you some tea," he informed him apologetically.

Daryl didn't respond other than to hold Rick tighter to him. He hadn't said anything, but Rick got the message clearly enough. _Stay. _And he complied, because he doubted he'd be able to stop cradling Daryl to his chest even if he wanted to.

He didn't know how long they sat there together, but the whistling of the kettle had finally died down, all the water in it boiled down to nothing. He knew that he shouldn't leave the flame on, but he couldn't bring himself to much care.

Sniffling and still trembling a bit, Daryl finally disentangled himself from Rick, hair covering his eyes as he sat back on his haunches. Rick tenderly reached forward to wipe away the tears he could see glittering wetly on Daryl's cheeks with his thumb, one after the other. Daryl only cringed away from his touch slightly, and even that small improvement warmed Rick's heart. After he'd finished, his hand went down to cradle Daryl's face again, tilting it upward so he could see his gorgeous electric blue eyes. The tears in them only enhanced their bright color, the whites of them pink from too much crying.

"Hey," Rick said. "You okay?" He couldn't keep his voice from sounding like he was speaking to a scared animal.

Daryl nodded slowly, worrying his lip between his teeth. He seemed to be trying hard to maintain eye contact, but his eyes ended up flickering to the side every few seconds.

"Do you want to go back to bed?" he asked, checking his watch. "We don't hafta head over for another hour and a half. My ma had a late shift at work."

The kid just watched him unreadably, his breath rasping in his chest. Daryl obviously needed more rest, if the shadows under his eyes were any indication. Rick sighed and stood up, not missing how Daryl twitched backward with a small whimper. He crouched down and slid his arm under Daryl's legs and put the other behind his back, lifting him up. He was lighter than Rick was comfortable with. Daryl tensed up for a minute, as if deciding whether or not to fight Rick. He tightened his hold on him just in case. He refused to drop him.

"What are you doin'?" he asked breathlessly, coughing into his arm weakly.

"Takin' you to bed, since you obviously don't know what a bedroom is," Rick said smartly, readjusting his grip on Daryl as he walked toward the room.

"S'fine on the floor," Daryl mumbled, but he reluctantly nestled himself closer to Rick's chest.

"Like hell it is." Rick gently lowered him down onto the bed. He looked down the length of Daryl's body to see that he hadn't even taken off his construction boots. He also hadn't taken off Rick's jacket, and a little thrill ran through him at the thought.

Following his gaze, Daryl turned his face away in embarrassment, clenching his jaw like he expected to be yelled at. Rick didn't say anything, though; he just reached down and began to unlace the worn shoes, tugging them off of Daryl's feet and tossing them into the corner of the small bedroom. He pulled at the corner of the blankets suggestively, but when Daryl tried to lift up his lower body to free the covers, he was too weak to move more than a couple of inches. Not for the first time, Rick wondered how the kid had even made it to school this morning. Maybe doing so was what had caused his condition to relapse; after all, he seemed a lot worse now than he had when Rick'd picked him up. Daryl's cheeks were red with frustrated shame at his lack of strength, and Rick just smoothed a hand over his hair comfortingly, letting him know that it was okay. Rick once again slipped his arms underneath his legs and lifted them as he yanked the blankets down, releasing Daryl and covering him with the blankets soon after. Daryl just watched him with his over-bright, feverish eyes, a sort of puzzlement on his features as Rick attended to him.

"I'm gonna get you that tea," Rick said, remembering that the stove was still on. Daryl nodded, the mounds of pillows Rick liked to keep on his bed seeming to swallow him up.

When he returned with the tea a few minutes later, Daryl was already fast asleep, snoring gently into his pillow. From the crooked angle his neck was at, Rick could tell that he had been trying to stay awake until he came back, but ultimately lost the battle. Carefully, gently, he removed one of the pillows from under Daryl's head so that he'd be laying more naturally, placing it next to him on the bed. Daryl automatically wrapped his arms around the mass of it in his sleep, nuzzling his face into the fabric of the pillowcase.

"Rick," he sighed, and there was no fear in his voice like Rick would have expected. It was a statement of sorts, a reassurance to himself. Rick could've sworn that his heart began to beat a little faster at the thought that his name could have that meaning to someone, especially Daryl.

"I'm here," Rick whispered gently, not even sure if he could hear him, taking Daryl's feverish hand and pressing it between his palms. "I'm here."

He didn't care that Daryl's tea was growing cold, or that he wasn't supposed to be holding another guy's hand as he slept in his bed. He could heat up the damned tea, and, quite frankly, he found that he rather liked holding Daryl's hand.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **You guys were a lot better with the feedback this time around, and I'd like to thank all of you. I really appreciate getting feedback on my writing. Otherwise, it's like talking to an empty room and I have no idea whether or not what I'm posting is actually liked. And to the few of you who said that I convinced you to review. . . Well, I'm glad. It's good that I persuaded you to do so, and I hope my story also had something to do with it as well.

I hope you keep reading and reviewing and favoriting. Enjoy the sixth chapter. This is more emotional-based than action-based, but it's not as long, so you can skip out on the ice cream and tea.

* * *

The car ride to Rick's mother's house was entirely silent.

When Rick had gently woken him up when it was almost time to leave, he'd been disoriented, blinking up at Rick's soft smile like a newborn kitten. It took him a while to remember what had happened, and, more importantly, why he was in Rick's bed. And when it'd finally hit him, he could hardly meet Rick's eyes, shrugging off his touch when he tried to help him sit up to drink the tea he'd made for him. He didn't want to face the poorly concealed expression of hurt on Rick's face at his brusqueness; he knew his attempts to keep the cop at a distance would entirely melt away if he did. He knew he must be confusing the fuck out of the guy, and he'd be lying if he tried to tell himself he didn't care, but he couldn't do much for it with his mind a tangled mess of nonsensical thoughts. Having his head a bit clearer after the five or six hours of sleep Rick had given him the opportunity to have didn't help anything like he thought it would. Without the haze of tiredness along with sickness, everything made too much sense. He liked it better when he could just refuse to think and give into his carnal desires. He pushed the thought away when he realized how much it sounded like Merle's life philosophy. Then again, his brother's core needs were for sex and drugs. Daryl just wanted someone to fucking hold him, and he just didn't see what was so _wrong _with that.

Daryl never missed anything, and he certainly didn't miss the fervent looks Rick sent in his direction, or the way his hand hovered near Daryl's when he took a hand off the wheel. Daryl kept his own hand clenched tightly in a fist, just to keep himself from inching it closer toward the cop's, imbued with his painful hesitance. The man next to him was usually so sure and confident, like when he'd easily thwarted the guy who was damn close to killing Daryl. He wanted to sink into the seat of the car and disappear when he realized that his standoffishness was enough to turn _Rick Grimes_ so timid. He wanted so badly the surety he'd felt when Rick held him close just a few hours ago, and he hated himself for it. Especially because Rick was standing in the crossfire between him and his stupid emotions

"Come on; we're here." The sound of Rick's voice startled him out of his thoughts, and he automatically looked toward the driver's seat from his downward gaze. He blinked in confusion when he didn't find Rick.

"Over here." There was a laugh in his voice, and Daryl bristled a little bit. His hearing was still impaired from the congestion clogging everything from his ears to his nose; otherwise, his sharp hunter's hearing would've known exactly where Rick's voice had come from.

Regardless of his annoyance, he took Rick's proffered hand, because he was still feeling faint and achy, and falling would be a hell of a lot more embarrassing than accepting someone's help. He dropped the hand like it'd burned him once he was out of the car, knowing that the contact would destroy his resolve if he prolonged it. He pretended that he didn't notice the fresh pain in Rick's eyes as Daryl waited for him to lead the way.

Rick stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to walk briskly when he realized that his outstretched hand was still hanging there. Daryl just followed him, his steps staggering a little to the side every once in a while, but he managed to keep up with Rick well enough despite his throbbing head and aching body. He didn't want to go in first, but Rick opened the door for him, steely—though not unkind—gaze daring him to protest. Daryl just ducked his head in a sort of reluctant agreement, and walked into the golden glow emitted from the entrance of the home.

As soon as Daryl walked over the threshold of Rick's childhood home, something barreled into his middle, knocking him back a few paces. Hurt bloomed from his healing ribs, a soft cry of pain leaving his lips. All rational thought disappeared as he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the next blow, trying to regain his balance. Every instinct told him to run, and he was about to do it, but suddenly, Rick's arm draped itself over his shoulder, stilling him. He tensed a bit, as he always did, but the contact had more of a calming effect than Daryl would ever have guessed. He forgot that he wanted to distance himself from Rick, pretend that nothing had happened, in the sudden necessity he felt for his comfort. He braved opening his eyes, less afraid now that he knew Rick was nearby. His eyes first rested on Rick's face, on the apology in the set of his mouth and the shine of his eyes, and he quickly searched for his assailant. All that he could find was a small child curled into Rick's arms, little hands clasped around his neck. She had her face tucked into Rick's shoulder, and the most he could see of her was her pink shirt and her coppery-ginger pigtail braids. He looked at Rick questioningly, a bit of panic still lingering in his stomach when he failed to find the threat.

"This is my kid sister, Hazel," he introduced, a little nervously. "She's a right eager gal sometimes. I shoulda given ya some warnin'."

Daryl felt a flush of embarrassment when he realized how he'd reacted to a _kid. _And the poor little thing looked absolutely dejected, peeking up at him from under her long, ginger lashes. "Hi, Daryl," she said before hiding her face in Rick's chest again. Then, she mumbled, "'m sorry for scarin' you."

"S'okay," he said, refusing to look at the unwarranted guilt in Rick's expression. "I'm jus' a li'l jumpy, s'all."

"Boys, is that you?" a female voice called from the center of the house, interrupting Rick as he tried to coax his little sister out of her hiding place at his neck.

"Yeah, it's us," Rick called back, his anxious eyes still not leaving Daryl. He gave Rick a small smile to let him know that he was okay, not being able to stand the way Rick's brow was creased in worry because of him. The man returned the gesture, his arm guiding Daryl forwards into the room directly across from them. Well, there went his resolve to avoid contact. Rick's touch just felt too _right _to shrug off. Hazel asked to be let down from Rick's hold, and he complied. She gave Daryl one last curious look before she scampered off, her feet thumping on the stairs as she ran up them. Rick just watched her go fondly and continued to lead Daryl.

The first thing that hit him was the aroma of food wafting from the kitchen. He'd been unable to smell it in the foyer of the house due to his clogged nose, but as he drew the air into his mouth, the scent was potent enough to penetrate the veil over his senses. Just smelling it made him feel better, and Daryl was beginning to believe that Rick's mother really was the miracle worker her son described her as. He looked over to see a large pot of soup simmering on the stove, and hovering above it with a wooden spoon was a small woman, her dark red curls swaying in front of her face as she rhythmically stirred her dish. Rick cleared his throat loudly to get her attention, and she turned to face them, the concentrated expression on her face breaking into a warm smile. Just by looking at her, he knew that Rick must take mostly after his father. She had a round face and a tiny nose dotted with little golden freckles, contrasting her son more than anything. But he definitely had her more subtly feminine features, like her lips and curly hair, and the kind twinkle in her eyes that Daryl secretly adored.

"So, this is the famous Daryl I been hearin' so much about," she said fondly, tapping her spoon on the rim of the pot and placing it on the counter.

Daryl just shuffled his feet awkwardly, raising his eyes briefly to look at her before they fell to the floor again. He found it hard to believe that Rick had spoken about him to his mother. "That's right, ma'am." Rick encouragingly tightened his arm around him. Pride be damned. He needed Rick's strength right now.

"I heard from the grapevine that you're sick," she said sternly, but no less kindly. "Come on, let me look at'cha."

"Ma—" Rick began, looking nervously at Daryl, but she waved him off.

"You bring a sick boy over ta my house an' you're tryin' to keep me from lookin' at him? Nice try, Rick Grimes."

She came closer, brushing her hands off on her apron. Rick disengaged himself reluctantly from Daryl, but he hovered close by, looking ready to intervene if Daryl became uncomfortable, just like he had with his sister. It took everything for Daryl to keep from recoiling when Mrs. Grimes cupped his face in both hands, inspecting him closely. But he couldn't help the hiss of pain that escaped him when a probing thumb brushed over his bruised eye, and she hummed worriedly. She hadn't seen his injury lurking in the shadows cast by his hair.

"Where'd ya get that?" she asked, and Daryl felt a little shiver run through him as he thought of how he'd gotten his eye blackened. He was sick of having to revisit it every time someone saw his face. He wondered if his father intentionally marred his this aspect of his appearance just so Daryl would have to endure this. He shook his head at the thought. His old man, as evil as the son of a bitch was, wouldn't be smart enough to purposely do that. He didn't care where or what he hit when he was on his drunken rampages.

"Don't matter," he muttered, his voice coming out a little gruffer than he wanted it to. "It's over, ain't it?"

Mrs. Grimes didn't like that response. If anything, she seemed to be more convinced of its nefarious origin. Daryl fought the urge to scowl. "You get yourself a nasty shiner, and you ain't gonna tell me how?"

"He had a huntin' accident," Rick responded for him as he remained silent, and Daryl looked at him with a mixture of gratitude and shock. He'd had the feeling that Rick hadn't completely believed his story at the movie theater, but, here he was, giving the same bullshit excuse that Daryl had provided. "Fell when he was trackin' a deer and hit his head. If ya knock it just right, you can get some nasty bruisin' around jus' one eye. I've seen it happen to plenty of the guys I've arrested after they passed out drunk an' smacked their heads on the way down."

Daryl had to admit, Rick was better at lying than he was. He looked to see if Rick's mother was convinced by her son's story, and he swallowed down his nervousness when she cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. Her eyes went from Daryl's tense, shifty face to Rick's earnest one before she breathed a sigh. "Be more careful, will you? You jus' ain't fond of takin' care of yourself."

He ducked his head in embarrassment. "Nah, but I got some good friends." He didn't look up to see Rick's reaction to the comment, but he felt like he could almost sense his smile's imprint on the air.

Daryl jerked when she brought her face close to his, large green eyes staring into his. She shushed him comfortingly, and her eyes tightened with worry as she took in his fever-bright eyes. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, drawing it back sharply after a few seconds of contact.

"You're burnin' up. How long you been sick?" she asked, hands finally leaving his face. Despite being warmed by her concern, Daryl was glad to have her hands off him. Physical contact always made him jittery, made him more likely to lash out. Well, unless it was Rick. And he still had hardly come to terms with that, still choosing to blame it on his illness. By the time he saw Rick again, he'd be able to take care of himself, and he'd be able to put an end to this random touching and comforting.

"I came down with it on Friday night." Come to think of it, he didn't know when he had woken up with that burning fever. "Or maybe Saturday mornin'. Don't remember so well."

She clucked her tongue worriedly, looking over to her son. "Rick, get Daryl some aspirin. We need ta knock that fever down a few notches." As Rick jumped to obey, she turned back to him and led him over to the table, a guiding hand on his shoulder pushing him down into a seat. "Have you had a fever like this all weekend?"

"I started ta feel better Sunday mornin'," Daryl said, actually being truthful, despite leaving out the fact that it had assuredly been much _higher _than right now on Saturday. He let the tension seep out of his aching body, glad to be off of his feet. "Figured I was okay to walk to school."

"How far from the school d'ya live?"

"'bout two and a half miles."

Mrs. Grimes pursed her lips. "Well, no wonder ya relapsed, walkin' all that way." Daryl hung his head, preparing for the reprimand that he knew was coming. "Rick, why didn't you give Daryl a ride to school?"

Daryl looked up quickly to see Mrs. Grimes glaring at her son, who was fumbling with a little white bottle. An expression of guilt flashed across his face, and it made something inside Daryl ache after everything the cop had done for him. If anyone deserved her wrath, it was Daryl.

"He didn't know, Mrs. Grimes," Daryl interjected, fiercely protective of Rick. "As soon as Glenn told him, he ran right over. I woulda had to walk home, too, if it weren't for him."

He didn't mention how Rick had trusted him enough to leave him alone his apartment, a novelty a Dixon would never have had a reason to experience. He also didn't mention how Rick had held him without a word when he woke up crying like a terrified kid after one of his nightmares, or how he'd picked Daryl up and tucked him into his own bed when he'd been too weak to do it himself. And he was too ashamed to talk about how he'd slept better on Rick's dusty apartment floor than he had all weekend at his own home. He'd promised himself that he'd forget any of it ever happened, and, if he couldn't do that, he could at least spare Rick the humiliation and keep his mouth shut. Regardless of what the cop said, he doubted he wanted it to get out what had occurred between them, especially since Daryl was a Dixon. It was a sentiment he couldn't really begrudge anyone.

Mrs. Grimes turned her reproving stare to him, and he met it evenly, even though it made him squirm to have someone looking at him like that. "You know you coulda called him."

Daryl made a noise of disbelief, but then he realized she was serious. "Don't know his number."

"You don't got a phone book?"

He might've, at one point, but he sure as hell didn't know where it was. And finding some stupid book was kind of low on his list of priorities when he was burning with a fever and trying to get the fuck away from his father and his drunken bullshit. "Lost it."

Rick's mother sighed. "All right, I guess I can let ya off the hook." Then, a crafty smile came over her expression, and Daryl halfheartedly feared what she was thinking. "Rick, why don't you start drivin' Daryl to school? I don't want him out there with winter comin' an' all. He might never get better."

Rick looked uncertainly at Daryl at her suggestion, his mother's eyes followed his gaze. "Would you like that?" Rick asked.

_Hell, yes, I would, _he wanted to say. But Daryl just shrugged. "Don't look like I got much choice."

Rick came over with a glass of water, two pills pinched between his fingers. He pressed the capsules into Daryl's palm and put the drink down on the table, taking the seat across from Daryl. "I can try to work it out so I can take breaks durin' those times. They're pretty lax about it," Rick mused, tapping long fingers on the wooden table. "And if I can get Shane ta start talkin' ta me again, he can cover me if I need it."

It suddenly hit Daryl that Rick was out of high school, that he had a job, that he had bills to pay. "Listen, you don't need to be doin' all this for me. I ain't got a problem with handlin' myself," he muttered, popping the pills in his mouth and chasing them down with a quick gulp of water. He was surprised at the taste. It wasn't like the stagnant tap water from his house; no, it resembled the frigid drinks he would take from the creek, clearer and more refreshing than anything he'd ever drunk. He sipped it again, swilling the liquid around in his mouth a little before swallowing it.

Rick made a playful sound of exasperation in his throat. "We went over this, man. Regardless of how it appears to you, I don't do this outta the goodness of my heart. We're friends; it's what we do."

Mrs. Grimes hummed approvingly, moving away from the table to go and tend to the soup. "All righty then, this looks ready." She disappeared into the main room, but her voice could be heard as she called, "Hazel, come on, sweetie; soup's ready."

She came back into the room, followed shortly after by her small daughter, and took down some pretty porcelain bowls that seemed to emit a ghostly glow. She clambered up into the seat across from Daryl while Rick took the one to the right. Even at the small table, he realized that Rick had taken the place at the head of the table where the father usually sat, and he felt a wave of sympathy for the entire Grimes family. He quickly smothered the thought when Mrs. Grimes came over, somehow balancing three bowls of soup in her hands. He didn't think she'd appreciate his pity. She placed them neatly in front of all three of them before going back and returning with her own helping. Daryl watched the rest of the family, sniffling discreetly as he waited for one of them to take the first bite.

"Hazel, do you wanna say grace?" Mrs. Grimes asked as she poured water for all of them.

The little girl nodded eccentrically, and she reached out to take her mother's and brother's hands. Daryl remembered doing this little ritual from before his ma died, and he held out his hands to Rick and Mrs. Grimes. He wasn't religious anymore; he couldn't be, not after his mother went up in flames and his father started spending less time praying and more time drinking and beating him and Merle at one wrong word. He looked around to find the family's eyes dutifully closed, and he found that he respected them too much to reject their custom. So he closed his eyes, too, waiting for Rick's kid sister to begin.

"Thank you, God, for the food you gave Mama so she could make us soup. And thank you for lettin' Ricky meet Daryl, so he could come over an' have some, too. Amen."

Daryl was too surprised by the words to remember to join in when Rick and Mrs. Grimes echoed the final word. He looked at the little girl sitting across from him, a question burning in his eyes, and all he got as an answer was a bright smile. He couldn't help but return it, and he felt like the very _essence _of this house was making him feel better. Suddenly, he wasn't so afraid of going home tonight.

He realized that the three were staring at him, waiting for him to take his first taste of the soup. He blushed and raised the spoon to his lips, slurping the liquid into his mouth so it wouldn't burn him. Everyone else was quiet when they joined him in eating, and he realized that it probably wasn't mannerly to make such a loud noise when eating. His face burned even hotter, and he tried to imitate how they ate, even though the soup was too hot when he didn't have his lips to cool it. He brushed it off. Pain wasn't anything new to him, anyway.

"This is really good," Daryl mumbled, and he felt like it was a complete understatement. He felt like the infection was being chased away from the inside out by the soup. Maybe all he needed to make him better was a homemade dinner. He couldn't remember the last time he wasn't eating squirrel or deer, much less when he'd last had a home-cooked meal. If his mother had ever bothered with such things, it was only for her husband. He and Merle were left to eat the leftovers, and they learned pretty damn quick that those were for their father, too.

He shook away his dark thoughts when he caught a glimpse of the bright grin Mrs. Grimes flashed in his direction. "Thank you, sweetie. It's always been their favorite since they were little ones." She looked at her children fondly. "I been makin' it since I first had Rick. My mama wouldn't teach me until I was pregnant with 'im. Said I'd have no reason ta know the recipe until I had a child of m'own ta make feel better. God knows I begged her for it."

Daryl smiled a little bit at the story, eating more of his dinner. The liquid had cooled down to a more tolerable temperature, and he found himself unable to keep himself from eating it quickly. It occurred to him that he'd hardly eaten over the weekend. He couldn't hunt for himself, and the stash of stale potato chips he had hidden in his room wasn't exactly nutritional. The fever had destroyed any appetite, anyway, and he never appreciated being hungry this much. Maybe it was because he actually had food in front of him.

Somehow, Mrs. Grimes seemed to know when he wanted more helpings without him even asking. And the minute he began to stare somberly at his empty bowl, she was pouring more soup into it, and he grinned his thanks, digging into the portion without complaint. Eventually, he was unable to eat any more, even though he really would have liked to. His stomach was bulging and filled with warmth, and the last time he remembered feeling somewhat close to that was on his thirteenth birthday, when Merle had saved up enough cash to get him a whole bag of fries and two burgers. Well, at least until his brother practically forced warm beer down his throat until he threw up. He shuddered at the memory. He'd thought that alcohol was supposed to take his worries away. In reality, it'd just made everything so much worse. He didn't tell Merle how his father had kicked the shit out of him for smelling of alcohol when he dropped him off at home before going off to meet his druggie friends. Didn't tell him how it felt like he was a prisoner in his own mind until the effects of the alcohol finally wore off. He hadn't thought he was supposed to prefer the hangover to actually being drunk, but he wasn't his brother or his father.

"Daryl, honey?" a gentle voice intoned, shaking him from his dark thoughts. Daryl's eyes flickered up to find its owner, and he was a little startled to see Rick's mother watching him with a bit of concern. He'd forgotten where he was for a moment, and he sheepishly looked down when he realized that both Rick and Hazel were watching him carefully. They seemed to be awaiting the answer to a question he'd never heard.

"Yeah?" he responded curtly, hiding the embarrassment in his voice, and he noticed with a thrill that it was much easier to speak, his throat soothed and almost entirely clear of congestion after eating the soup.

"I asked if you wanted ta go into the living room with Hazel while Rick and I cleaned up," she said, and he noted with relief that there was none of the irritation he'd have expected in her voice.

"I'll help," Daryl said immediately. After the dinner she'd made him, the least he could do was help with the cleanup.

The stern, motherly looked was back in Mrs. Grimes eyes, and Daryl wondered briefly if it'd ever even left in the first place. "You're in no state ta be doin' anything like that," she said firmly. "Now, I can either have Rick carry ya in there, or you can go on your own. That's 'bout all the choice you're gonna get."

At the mention of being carried, Daryl's mind flashed back to the incident in Rick's apartment, and he felt his face start burning again. He hoped beyond hope that his blush wasn't as visible as it felt. "Don't need no one carryin' me," he snapped, standing up. He did so a bit too quickly for his ill body to take, and he fought to hide the dizziness that went running through him. The soup had helped, but he clearly wasn't completely better. It was childish thinking that he'd magically leave this house feeling one hundred percent again.

He picked up his bowl to carry it over to the sink, determined to at least do that. He didn't need anyone cleaning up after his own personal mess. Still infuriatingly weak, Daryl tried to keep his hands from trembling, and as he watched them, his mind summoned the image of that glass tipping sideways in his hand, the whiskey spilling over his fingers, his father's angry face just visible through the yellow liquor. He flinched as he felt the ghost of that same stinging pain in the circular, silvery scars that could only be seen mottling his arms when looked at closely. And he was suddenly aware of how the abrupt motion made him lose his grip on the smooth surface of his bowl, how it was suddenly slipping through his fingers, and, once again, he couldn't do _anything _about it.

Daryl cowered at the resounding crash the bowl made when it shattered into a thousand pieces on the tiled floor of the kitchen, and a tiny, rational part of his brain told him that he imagined the sound to be a lot louder than it actually was. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to keep himself calm when he felt the hysteria creeping up from his stomach to lodge itself in his throat. He couldn't breathe, and he was hyperaware of the other people in the room, could feel their eyes burning into him like his father's cigarettes. He blindly fell to his knees to try to clean up the mess, hoping that it would be enough to avoid a punishment. The jarring movement sent pain through his aching muscles, but it was like he was feeling it through some kind of veil, like thick water. The porcelain of the bowl had been thin enough to be extremely sharp when it'd shattered, and his badly shaking hands were nicked in a handful of places within the space of a few seconds as he handled the fragilely clinking shards. But he didn't feel that pain, either.

He cringed back when a hand suddenly landed on his shoulder, paralyzing him in his ill-found attempts to clean up the shattered remains of the pretty bowl he'd broken. He choked back a sob, because he knew that it hadn't been enough, that he'd been bad and he was going to get punished. All he could think was, _Oh, God, not the belt. Not the belt. _

"Daryl!" a voice said sharply, and he flinched back from the harsh tone.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, and he hardly realized how young his voice sounded.

"Daryl, listen to me. You don't have anything to be sorry for. It's a bowl. A goddamn_ bowl._ It doesn't matter, all right? It doesn't matter."

The only thing he could process was Rick's voice, nearby his ear, and he let the words wash over him, sink into him. He slowly began to realize that he was safe, that he wasn't going to get whipped just for dropping that bowl. Rick's hands were firmly clasped around his biceps and slowly lifted him up when his breath started to even out. As his senses returned to him, he remembered that there were other people in the room, that someone other than Rick had seen one of his breakdowns. Mortification flooded him, and he wanted to disappear, anything to save him from the reactions of Rick's family. Hazel, Mrs. Grimes—he didn't want them to have to even be near the world that Daryl was a part of. He would've wanted to protect Rick, too, but he was a cop; he'd see these things one way or another.

But he realized that no one was really paying attention to him except for Rick. His mother was already kneeling down to clean up the shards left by the bowl he'd dropped, and even Rick had moved away to begin washing the plates. He suddenly noticed that he had a paper towel in his hand, and that it was beginning to look more red than white as it soaked up the blood from the nick the shattered bowl had made in his hand. As his thoughts returned to that damned bowl, his eyes were drawn like a magnet to the mess on the floor, and his lower lip trembled infinitesimally. Then, he felt a warm, squishy heat clasp around three of his fingers, and he jerked a little at the contact, eyes flickering around to find its source. Daryl's gaze rested on Rick's kid sister, staring up at him with big brown eyes. He was surprised at the emotion in them. He didn't know exactly what he _had _been expecting, but it definitely wasn't the infectious happiness that seemed strong enough to swallow him up, too.

"C'mon," she said, and he recognized the gently adamant tone that seemed to be an inherent trait in the Grimes family.

He numbly let her lead him into the living room until they both stood in front of the couch. She tipped her head toward the piece of furniture, a little smile breaking out on her plump, pink lips. When he didn't move, she huffed loudly and rolled her eyes and gently shoved at his lower abdomen, the highest place she could reach on his body. His pride should've been injured at how easily she was able to push him back into the cushions, but he was just too drained to care. Instead, he just watched her a bit nervously, waiting for the other shoe to drop and vaguely enjoying how the squishy pillows formed around his body.

He startled a little bit when she suddenly came closer and put a hand on his knee, using it as leverage to hoist herself up onto the couch. Daryl stayed completely rigid while she crawled into his lap, knees somehow resting where they wouldn't hurt his bruises. Tiny hands fisted themselves in his shirt, and her head rested on his bony shoulder. He could feel her trying to subtly get more comfortable, and his arms instinctively reached up to wrap around her in an awkward sort of cradle, unable to keep himself from pulling her closer to him. She wriggled around in his grasp until it felt almost natural.

"You're gonna get sick," he whispered, and he was suddenly aware of the tears in his eyes.

"That's okay," she responded, her voice muffled against his shirt. "I have Mommy ta take care a'me."

He didn't—probably couldn't, with the lump he felt in the middle of his throat—protest any further, electing to rest his cheek on top of her soft, braided hair. He didn't think about how he wished that he could stay here, that he had his mama to make him soup and sing him songs when he wasn't feeling well. He couldn't think about that—not with the warm, reassuring weight of something so hopeful, so alive, in his lap, curled into him like he was a damn lifeline, like she wasn't the one tugging him back from the brink and, more, _holding him there_. His hand raised to stroke her silky tresses, and he realized that this was exactly how his mama used to do it in those little moments they shared without his old man or even Merle, who was becoming more like his father every day.

He hoped that Rick and his mother would take a little longer to clean up the mess in the kitchen, that Rick would realize that he needed a few minutes to collect himself. And, as he held Rick's little sister and tried to force down whatever emotions had managed to bubble up, he hoped that Hazel wouldn't mind his tears drying in her hair.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **I meant to get this up earlier today, but I got distracted. Sorry!

You guys were really awesome with your reviews, and you guys deserved a faster update than this, so I'm sorry. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter anyway, and keep reviewing so I can get the next chapter up really soon. I love all of you!

* * *

The cleanup after dinner took hardly any time at all, and Rick glanced around, slightly bemused, at the entirely spotless kitchen. He hadn't even realized when he was close to finishing. Free of the distraction, he could now feel his mother's concerned eyes on him, but he didn't speak. He didn't really know what to say after what had happened, anyway.

"Rick. . ."

He didn't turn around, just closed his eyes and tightened his jaw at the hesitance in her voice. It wasn't something he was used to hearing from his mother.

"Are you gonna tell me the full story, or what?"

Surprised, he finally turned to face her, hand instinctively going to his brow. Her eyes followed the movement, and he stopped midway, awkwardly brushing at a nonexistent spot on his shirt. "What story?"

"You're tellin' me that that was the first time you saw something like that happen to 'im?" His mother raised an eyebrow skeptically. His face burned a little bit when he thought of how it must have seemed to his mother when his touch and fervent words were the only thing that could calm Daryl down.

Rick sighed, finally giving into the urge and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, leaning over the pristine counter like he didn't have the strength to keep himself standing straight. He felt a firm, comforting hand on his shoulder, and he leaned into it, releasing a shaky sigh.

"No," he admitted, raising his blue eyes to look into hers. He didn't want to betray Daryl's confidence; he really didn't. And if he weren't sure that his mother would never use it for anything but to help the Dixon in ways that he couldn't, he would never even dream of it. So when she rubbed her palm against his back soothingly, gently urging him to continue, he obeyed her. "When I picked him up after school, he seemed fine, other than bein' sick. I dropped him off at my place so he could get some shut-eye, 'cause it didn't look like he got any over the weekend. I had to go back and finish my shift, anyway, so I told him to jus' take it easy."

"And?" his mother prompted when Rick didn't continue. This was the harder part.

"I got home, and I was gonna make him some tea. You know, that stuff you always used to force down my throat when I was sick or stressin' out or something." Under different circumstances, he would have shared a smile with his mother at the fond memory. But they were both too focused on Daryl. "I went to go check on 'im while the water was boilin', and he was passed out on the floor. I told him to take the bed, but he didn't listen," he added hastily at the scalding glare he received after relaying this little detail. "I just . . . sat with him for a while, tryin' to decide if I should wake him up and take him into my room. But before I could, he started cryin' out in his sleep, like he was scared of something. I just figured it was one of those nightmares, you know, like the ones you get with a fever, so I woke him up, and he started fightin' me. I don't even think he knew who I was for a few seconds there. I just made him sleep for a little longer when he stopped freaking out." He didn't mention how Daryl had remained in his arms for what felt like hours, for the time it took for all the water in his little kettle to be boiled away.

Rick's mother looked deeply troubled by the information, brow creased as she seemed to be thinking hard. "What was he like when you first met him?"

"Tough as nails," Rick said immediately, smiling fondly as he remembered Daryl's cheeky comments back at the police station. "Took on Shane when he was all fired up without battin' an eye."

"So, he started actin' like this after he got sick?"

He nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek. He hoped that his other would be able to make more sense out of this than he could. If there was anything predictable about Daryl, it was his unpredictability, and that wasn't really something Rick could work with.

"You wanna know what I think?" Rick merely looked at her in halfhearted irritation, and she gave him a ghost of a smile before continuing. "I think that he's just feeling like death and he's clingin' to you like a lifeline. I'm sure there's more to it, but I think that's what it boils down to. Something tells me that Daryl ain't used to people takin' care of him. Seems to me like, recently, you've been the person doin' just that, and it's something he's gonna want when he feels this sick. It's just instinctive."

Rick hummed thoughtfully. "That makes sense. I mean, the stuff that's happened ever since I met him makes that a damn good possibility."

"What d'ya mean, 'the stuff that's happened'?" his mother asked.

"Well, you know how I made Shane back off at the station, and how I gave 'im a ride home," he started, revisiting these incidents even though his mother had been victim to his excited stories that ensued after they occurred. Then he thought of what he hadn't mentioned to her, the story he couldn't bring himself to relay, even though he'd, overall, had a good night with Daryl.

His ma seemed to pick up on his pensiveness, and she laid a hand on his arm, urging him to continue. Of course she knew that there had to be more to what Rick was saying.

"There was this mugger at the gas station. . ." Rick flinched slightly at the memory of the man, what he'd said about Daryl after he'd attacked him. He fought back the anger that lodged itself in his throat so he could continue. "He jumped Daryl for ten bucks, tried to choke him out. I stopped him, but he was really shaken up."

His mother gave him a look of alarm. "Choke him out. . ." she echoed, stunned. "Jesus, how much trouble are you gonna get into with that kid?"

Rick shrugged helplessly. "Sometimes it's like he's a damn magnet for it." He didn't mention how he really didn't mind pulling Daryl out of the tough situations he seemed to get himself into all the time. If Daryl was going to be getting into dilemmas as he seemed prone to, he'd rather be there to protect him rather than leaving him to fend for himself. But something told him that Daryl knew how to take care of himself, whether or not he was there.

His mind returned to the subject at hand, and he realized his mother still hadn't answered the question he had burning into him. "Why did he freak out?" Rick asked, ignoring how childish it sounded in his mouth. "I mean, it was just a bowl. . ."

He looked up from under his lashes when his mother didn't respond, finding her expression pained and lost, like she knew something that he didn't. She opened her mouth to respond, but seemed to think better of it, lips pressing together in a thin line. "I don't know, honey." Something in her demeanor told Rick otherwise, but his mother was nothing if not stubborn. He wouldn't get whatever she was holding back out of her unless she wanted to, so he might as well not try at all. "He ain't thinkin' rationally. It could be anything, really."

Rick stood upright again, running a hand through his hair. "I guess you're right. What should I do?"

"All you can do right now is stay with 'im, Rick. I know you've only known him for a little while, but he needs ya. Even when he's better and he ain't gonna want to admit it."

He nodded in agreement. "I'm not gonna leave. There's something about him. I don't think I could even if he didn't need me." Rick smiled sheepishly.

"Well, get in there. He's waitin' for ya."

Rick smiled and nodded, leaning in and giving his mother a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, Mama."

She patted his hand where it lay on the counter, smiling up her gentle smile at him. "For what?"

_For bein' a mother to him, _he wanted to say. But Rick didn't want to mention how Daryl'd lost his mother. He didn't think that the secretive Dixon would appreciate that. "I don' know. Jus' for bein' you."

They didn't say anything more, and Rick turned away to go and meet Daryl in the living room, fully prepared to act like nothing had happened. He knew that was what the Dixon would want, and Rick wasn't one to pry. He was just happy that Daryl felt at ease enough to let Rick comfort him in those dark moments. If Rick was ever going to find out what they were about, it'd have to be if Daryl _wanted _to tell him. Even after everything had happened, he'd only known Daryl for less than a week. He had no right to expect anything from him other than what he was willing to give.

As much as he wanted to see Daryl, make sure that he was okay, the scene that met him had him frozen in place where he stood at the doorframe.

Daryl was curled into the far end of the couch, the pillows almost hiding his slight frame entirely. Rick instinctively looked to find his eyes, but his face was tucked into what he realized was his sister's hair. Daryl had her cradled in his arms, so tenderly despite all his awkwardness that Rick could hardly associate it with the short-tempered kid's usual mannerisms. One arm supported her back, his rough, worn, yet somehow elegant hand resting at the back of her knee. His other hand curved around her neck and head, the fingers rhythmically petting her hair, smoothing back the curls Rick's mother, like his own, could never get to lay flat.

He realized that Hazel was sleeping, her little chest rising with the telltale even breaths of deep slumber. Even as she slept, she curled herself closer to Daryl, and his arms tightened in response, holding her close to him. As Rick listened more carefully, he could hear the tiny hitches in Daryl's breathing, and he wasn't sure if it was entirely because of his illness.

But Daryl was a trained hunter, and Rick's presence couldn't have gone unnoticed for long. He raised his head to look at him, unbelievably blue eyes glistening with tears, staring at him with guarded vulnerability, a challenge for him to say something. But Rick just met his gaze straight on, refusing to let any emotion other than understanding free of condescension into his eyes. Daryl's eyes inevitably flickered away, and Rick took the opportunity to move silently across the room to sit next to Daryl on the couch, far enough away where he wasn't making physical contact, and Daryl wouldn't feel like he was pressuring him for it.

"You've got a right sweet sister, man," Daryl said softly, hand not ceasing in its stroking of her hair. "You and your ma should be proud."

"We are," Rick responded in an equally gentle voice. "I can take her up to bed, if you want."

"Nah," Daryl said quickly, and Rick didn't miss how his arms held her even closer at the thought of getting her taken away. "She's all right."

Rick just nodded, resting his elbow on the back of the couch so he could lay his face in the palm of his hand. "How're you feelin'?"

"Better," Daryl replied, and he rested his cheek on the top of Hazel's head, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Listen, Rick. . ."

"You don't have to say anything." Rick didn't know how he knew what Daryl was about to say, but he continued. "The stuff that happened today. . . You don't gotta worry about it. As far as I'm concerned, it never happened." And Rick couldn't help himself from adding, "Unless you want anything otherwise."

Daryl glanced at him strangely at that, but his eyes quickly returned to Hazel's sleeping form in his arms. "Yeah," he mumbled, and Rick watched as his cheeks, a bit of color returned to them by his mother's soup, reddened in embarrassment. "That sounds good."

There was something else eating at Rick, and from the looks Daryl was sending him every once in a while, he knew that he could sense his unease, too. He decided to address it, just to clear the air. He didn't like this feeling of disquiet with Daryl, especially. "I just. . . Daryl, I wasn't lyin' when I said that I liked you," he started, shifting uncomfortably as he tried to think of how to word what he was trying to say. "I just hope you'll let somethin' like this happen again."

"What, me sleepin' in your bed and breakin' your ma's plates?" Daryl asked, and Rick couldn't help but smile at his good sense of humor.

"Eh, she has so many, I've been plannin' to break a few myself."

Daryl looked at him in disbelief, and then began to chuckle, his entire body shaking as he tried to keep it quiet so Hazel wouldn't wake up. Rick joined him, but his nervousness had him running a hand through his hair. Daryl, of course, noticed the nervous tick, and his face became serious again. "Let what happen again?" he asked, and it killed Rick that he really didn't know.

"I don't know, just . . . hanging out, I guess," Rick said, suddenly feeling clumsy and stupid under Daryl's observant gaze. "Come and have dinner once in a while, 'cause I don't think this little girl's gonna be very happy if you don't come back real soon." He looked at Hazel fondly, and Daryl mimicked him despite the discomfort he could see twisting his mouth.

"Rick. . ."

"Listen, I know we haven't had the most normal friendship so far. I mean, I met you because you got hauled into the police station I work at, for Christ's sake." Daryl scowled at that memory. "But it doesn't matter, 'cause we _are_ friends, and I like hangin' out with you. I don't want that ta change just 'cause of some crazy shit that's happened."

"What do you want?" Daryl asked, and the way he barked it out startled Rick. He looked helpless, and Rick realized that, by not being direct with him, Daryl was starting to feel cornered.

"Nothin'," he said. Daryl looked at him skeptically, and he continued, "Just promise me you're not gonna start avoidin' me. I'll give ya as much space as ya need; we don't even need ta talk when I'm drivin' you to and from school if you don' want. But don't shut me out."

His companion stayed silent for several moments, and Rick was mildly afraid of what his brooding would create. Daryl was volatile, and Rick was learning fast that little things could set him off in a variety of ways, among which included him yelling and storming off.

"Y'know, I don't get how Lori coulda ever dumped ya."

Rick looked at Daryl in shock, brows furrowing, mouth opening slightly. "What?" he asked, incredulous.

Daryl just shrugged. "I mean, unless you didn't try to talk her out of it. I swear to God, you could make someone think the damn earth was flat if ya set your mind to it."

Rick's mind whirred as it tried to make the connection between their conversation and what Daryl was saying now. "Wait, what?" he repeated.

Daryl rolled his eyes, a smile on his lips as he looked at Rick. "I'm tryin' ta say that it's damn hard ta say no to ya, Grimes."

Rick grinned back at him all slow, trying to keep hope from setting into his mind. "So, you're sayin' that we can still chill together and stuff?"

He shrugged, and his smile turned into a more neutral, unsure expression. "As long as you wanna."

"Why wouldn't I want to?"

Daryl shrugged again, and Rick realized it was a habit that was going to drive him up the wall. He pressed on, "Well, I don't think I'm ever gonna not want to, so I don't see a problem with that."

They sat silence after that, a warm, comfortable air between them forming. Rick took the risk of inching a little closer to Daryl on the couch, and he was happier than he realized he should have been when Daryl didn't recoil. Eventually, the younger's head dropped so that it was halfway on the back pillows of the couch and halfway on Rick's shoulder. This flu that Daryl was suffering with was obviously sapping all of the strength out of him if he was this tired so soon after a six hour nap.

"I broke up with Lori," Rick suddenly said, and Daryl made a sleepy sound against his shoulder.

He'd expected Daryl to be disbelieving, to ask him why he'd said otherwise in the car with Glenn. But the Dixon just nodded, like he'd known all along. "Why?"

"She . . . wasn't my type," he said slowly, and he realized that he'd been totally unprepared for Daryl's question, even though he was the one who brought the subject up.

"What is your type, exactly?" his friend asked, and Rick just shrugged, suddenly brought back to the way he found himself caressing Daryl's face with a fondness and awe he never could have mustered with Lori. He was glad that Daryl wouldn't see the blush burning at his cheeks.

"I dunno, really," Rick said. "Just, definitely not her."

Besides the lack of physical attraction between them, Lori and he just hadn't been compatible. She'd always criticize him for every little thing he didn't do up to her standards, and he also knew that she'd had eyes for both him and Shane for a while there. It certainly didn't help that Shane was always showing him up when Lori was around, either. It was just another competition between him and his best friend that he didn't need, so he broke up with her, giving her the justification she needed to go and be with his best friend. All three of them were a lot happier that way. Lori was no longer disappointed with the fact that Rick just _wasn't _his best friend, and Shane wasn't jealous anymore. Well, he hadn't been, until the kid right next to him had walked into his life. This time, Rick was sure that he'd take Shane's jealousy over never seeing Daryl again.

"All right, you two, I've got dessert." Rick's mother's voice penetrated the room, and Hazel woke with a start. It wasn't that her voice was _loud, _per se, it just captivated everyone's attention, even if they were sound asleep, it seemed. Daryl raised his head and yawned away his tiredness to see what Rick's mother had brought.

Rick watched with a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as Daryl shushed his kid sister, allowing her to once again sink into the warmth of his chest. His eyes slid to his mother, and he saw the shock he'd felt upon first seeing the same sweet scene flickering in her eyes. She had four bowls of ice cream topped with sprinkles and whipped cream balanced expertly on her outstretched arms. Rick jumped to his feet to help her, taking the bowls precariously balanced on her forearms and putting them down on the coffee table. She smiled her thanks and placed the remaining two bowls next to the other ones, taking the armchair placed perpendicular to the couch.

Knowing that Daryl was a little tied up at the moment, Rick handed him his ice cream, not missing how his eyes lit up at the sight of the dessert. He got a hoarse mumble that sounded like a thank you before he began spooning the creamy delicacy into his mouth, humming appreciatively at its flavor. Even though Rick had been taught that such manners weren't proper etiquette, he could only think about how _adorable _Daryl looked as he ate the ice cream.

"You really shouldn't be havin' ice cream when you're sick like this. It'll only make the congestion worse," his mother intoned, and Daryl looked up nervously. Rick just rolled his eyes, to let Daryl know that is mom was just being mischievous. It had the desired effect, because Daryl just smiled a little and returned his gaze to his ice cream. "But I figured I'd let it go. Ya deserve something sweet, kid, that's for sure."

Daryl glanced up again, as if hearing this shocked him. "Thanks," he said, and it was a pained, unsure sound that made Rick's heart clench. He held back the urge to put a reassuring arm around him, touch his hand, at the least, and took his mother's and Hazel's ice cream, handing the bowls to their respective owners before turning to his own. As he began to eat his dessert, he caught sight of his watch. He blinked in shock when he saw it was already half past ten. Where the hell had the time gone? How long had his mother let him sit with Daryl before coming out with the ice cream?

"Gettin' late," he commented absently, abandoning his attempts to explain how the time had slipped by so quickly. "I'm gonna have to get you home soon, Daryl."

Daryl squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, jaw tightened as the ice cream he currently had in his mouth melted, and Rick looked at him curiously. When they reopened, they were heavily guarded, no emotion leaking through the hardened, blue gaze. "Fine by me," the Dixon finally said, his voice neutral, if a little harsh. "Tell me when you wanna leave."

As he exchanged a look with his mother, he knew that they were thinking the same thing. _Let him stay here for the night. _But neither of them offered, because Rick and his mother both knew that Daryl would never take them up on it. They knew that he'd see it as an imposition, and they didn't want to make him upset. Glenn's words from earlier echoed in his head, and he had to convince himself once again of the futility of trying to make Daryl stay at either his apartment or his mother's house.

"You're gonna be back, right, Daryl?" Hazel asked, spoon in her mouth as she leaned back into Daryl's chest.

"Damn right," Daryl responded, balancing his bowl in one hand so he could ruffle her hair with the other. She leaned into his touch, happily eating more of her dessert as she curled into the warmth of Daryl's body.

Rick smiled at the exchange. When he'd first met Daryl, he'd have never guessed that he would love kids this much. Or that kids would adore him as much as Hazel did. Despite her initial eagerness, it took his little sister a hell of a long time to warm up to his friends. Shaking his head fondly, he wondered what other secrets the enigma he knew as Daryl Dixon had to be hiding.

"So, Daryl, how's school?" his mother asked, breaking the amicable silence that had been cast over room. Rick smiled a little wider when he remembered asking Daryl the same question in the police station. He knew that it was kind of strange that he remembered something like that, but he really couldn't imagine forgetting anything that involved Daryl.

"S'all right," Daryl said, fidgeting. He stopped immediately, though, when Hazel, starting to slither off his lap without his arms to hold her in place, whined in protest. He watched her a little anxiously as she adjusted herself, only relaxing when she smiled up her wide grin at him.

"More than all right, I'd say," Rick commented, a mischievous smirk on his lips. "He did better than _Glenn _on a test."

"Glenn?" his ma asked, eyes widening. "You gotta be kiddin'. Isn't he on his way ta bein' valedictorian?"

"That's right," Rick continued, only laughing at the glare Daryl sent his way.

"Ain't nothin' special," Daryl said sulkily, bangs hiding his eyes as he glowered at the two of them. Rick could tell he didn't like being the center of attention under any circumstances, and he felt a little guilty for calling him out, even if it was for a positive reason. And, despite not knowing much about the Dixon household, he also didn't think that grades were something that that family appreciated very much. He wasn't even sure if any of them had _graduated_ from high school, much less maintained passing grades. He knew Merle Dixon sure as hell hadn't.

"Of course it is," his mother said firmly. "When you do well, it's always special."

"Yeah, well, that's the first I've heard of it." Daryl seemed to struggle to reach around Hazel as he tried to put his empty ice cream dish down, and Rick reached out to help him. Daryl, not seeing Rick until the last moment, jerked a little when their fingertips brushed, but luckily, Rick was there to catch the bowl before it could slip from his grasp. He saw the raw relief in Daryl's eyes, and he gave him a tiny nod of acknowledgment. The cop inwardly shuddered at the thought of a repeat of the incident that had occurred after dinner. He was elated to have _this _Daryl back. The thought of losing him again to that astounding fear was hard for him, but Rick knew he wouldn't hesitate to bring him out of it, if need be.

"You done?" Daryl suddenly asked bluntly, tearing Rick out of his brooding. The near recurrence of the event in the kitchen had obviously affected the seemingly unflappable teen, and Rick recognized the defense mechanism he'd observed at the police station when Daryl'd felt threatened by Shane. He realized that Daryl needed to leave as soon as was possible, that he was beginning to feel overwhelmed again.

Rick spooned the melting remnants of his ice cream into his mouth quickly to delay their departure as little as possible. "I am, now. You ready ta go?"

"Yeah."

Rick stood up and stretched, taking his, his sister's, and Daryl's bowls into the kitchen and putting them in the sink so his mother wouldn't have to do it. She was taking her time eating her dessert, and Rick was stunned for probably the millionth time by her lack of a sweet tooth. When he returned, he saw Daryl trying to disengage himself from Hazel, the two of them just a mess of limbs wrestling playfully on the couch. His sister didn't seem to want to let go, and whenever Daryl pried a hand off of him, the other one clasped on even more firmly.

"C'mon, brat, I gotta go," Daryl whined, face scrunched up as he tried to hold his stern expression in place. "I'll be back real soon, 'kay? If I'm not, jus' have your brother come and kidnap me or something. He's real good at that."

Smiling unashamedly at the comment, Rick leaned in and grabbed his sister around the middle, surprising her enough so that her limbs abandoned their death grip on Daryl. She writhed in his arms as he tried to hold her still, reaching out for Daryl. Eventually, she gave up, becoming a dead weight in his grip. "Not fair," she wailed, and he could just picture the pout on her mouth.

"Life ain't fair, honey," Rick said in a singsong voice, spinning his kid sister around and putting her down on the couch when Daryl was standing safely behind him. "If you promise t'be good, you can give Daryl a hug goodbye."

Even as he promised, he looked over at Daryl out of the corner of his eye to make sure that it was all right. Daryl seemed a little surprised that Rick was asking his permission, but he still gave a small nod.

"I promise," Hazel said, her voice adorably miffed.

"All right. . ." He stepped to the side to give her a clear passage to Daryl, ready to swoop in to his friend's rescue if his sister got a little too rowdy. But she was surprisingly gentle, Daryl not flinching at all, as she wrapped her arms around the back of his knees, laying her head softly on his stomach, as she was only about half his height. Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, mouth tight with a strong emotion as he patted her head gently.

When he reopened his eyes, Rick could see the pure _affection _shining from their blue depths, chasing away the haunted quality that lingered with Rick for hours each time after seeing the Dixon. "You be good for your mama, ya hear me?" Daryl said gently, his voice breaking a little. Rick chose to blame it on his sickness.

"I will," Hazel responded, pulling away and grinning up at Daryl, the holes left by the teeth that were still growing in given full glory.

The gentle clink of Rick's mother putting her dish down on the glass table attracted all of their eyes, and she made her way over to Daryl. Hazel obediently stepped out of the way so that her mom could take her place, Daryl awkwardly putting his hands in the pockets of his ragged jeans and looking down at her with an uncertain little smile that Rick could swear was melting his heart.

She cupped his face in both her hands and brought it down so she could kiss his forehead. Daryl startled a little bit at the gesture, but his body went lax after a second, and the look on his face spoke of hesitant happiness, like he wasn't sure if he should allow himself to feel it at all.

"Stay safe, sweetie," his mother said softly, smoothing the wrinkles that had formed in Rick's jean jacket after Daryl'd slept in it.

"Mhmm." Daryl nodded slightly, biting his lip, and it said one thousand words that Daryl, for some reason, couldn't make himself say, like _thank you. _He knew his mom was too observant to miss it, and she smiled in a way that told him he was always welcome. As Rick watched, he knew he could never fully appreciate how wonderful of a woman his mother was.

And then, to his shock, Daryl hesitantly hugged his mother, arms reaching up to awkwardly wrap around her. Rick could see her face as she placed her chin on Daryl's shoulder and made the embrace more natural, and found his surprise mirrored in her expression. "That soup was really good," Daryl mumbled quietly. And, somehow, it just seemed to emphasize all the things Daryl had said without saying.

"Anytime, sweetheart, anytime," she responded, eyes bright with emotion, and Daryl pulled away, his face firmly averted. Rick realized that Daryl was just about at the ends of his ability to interact with people, so he quickly launched an escape route.

"C'mon, Daryl, let's get you home. Soup or not, I ain't gonna forgive myself if you don't get any sleep 'cause of me."

Realizing that Daryl just planned to follow him, Rick gave his mother a quick hug and a murmured thanks before heading out to the kitchen. Daryl was hot on his heels as he made his way to exit the household, and, in the silence of the frigid night, he was transfixed by how loud his footsteps were compared to Daryl's silent gait. Maybe he could get him to teach him to hunt. That would be interesting, a few days alone with Daryl with only woodland creatures for company. He liked the idea more than he cared to admit.

Subconsciously, he ended up walking Daryl to his side of the car and opening the door for him despite the vehement glare he received. He rounded the car quickly to get into the vehicle, trying to escape the bite of the air. He immediately noted the shiver taking over Daryl's body and turned the heat on once he had the engine started. Daryl had his hands balled in the too-long sleeves of Rick's jacket, trying to keep them warm. Even if the aspirin he'd taken had knocked down his fever, he was obviously still getting chilled easily.

Rick turned on some music since neither of them were really in the mood to talk, stuff that he knew that Daryl liked from their escapade with Glenn last Friday. The cop found himself mesmerized by how Daryl mouthed over the lyrics, lips silently caressing the words. He mentally slapped himself. He was _not _supposed to be noticing those kinds of things.

Thankfully, Daryl didn't seem to notice his close scrutiny as he let the music wash over him while they drove over to his house. It wasn't really a shock to Rick to see Daryl this invested in something. The teen seemed to channel all of his passion into everything he did, and he saw no reason as to why music should be any different.

As Rick pulled to a stop in front of the tiny house at the end of a cul-de-sac, Daryl looked at him evenly. But Rick could see the uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "You knew that other place wasn't mine."

"Yeah. I know you had your reasons, man, but I ain't gonna let you walk in the cold like this when you're sick. If you're afraid of your old man seein' me, well. . . It's dark, and my car's black." Rick shrugged, unsure of how Daryl was going to react. He let his gaze float away so that Daryl wouldn't feel pressured.

"That ain't it," Daryl murmured after a few minutes, and Rick's eyes were drawn back to him to find his face firmly turned away.

"Then what is?" Rick asked in an equally soft voice.

Daryl stayed silent until his finally opened the door of the car and slid out into the night, leaning back down to look at Rick. "Thanks for the ride, Sheriff."

Then, the Dixon made to take off his jacket, obviously planning to give it back to its owner. But Rick was having none of that, and he held out a hand to stop him. "Keep it. Then you won't have an excuse if I find ya without a jacket tomorrow," he said in response to the confused look Daryl sent his way.

Daryl just grinned at him coyly and gave a mock salute before walking off confidently into the darkness. _This _was the Daryl Dixon he knew, and it made him ecstatic to have him back.

Remembering that Daryl needed his backpack from the trunk, he unlocked it just as his friend made to open it. Rick struggled to make out his retreating form amid the inky blackness of night after he heard the trunk slam shut, and he couldn't hold back a smile as he made out his form, the way that _his _jacket complimented the hard lines of his torso, the way his light-wash jeans hung loose around Daryl's slender hips, the way he perfectly adjusted his balance so that having his pack hefted on one shoulder wouldn't hinder him.

Once Daryl was out of sight, he let his head fall onto edge of the steering wheel, heavy with the revelation that he allowed to finally hit him. Shortly after, another revelation hit him—he was _so _fucked.

* * *

Daryl had tucked Rick's jacket back into his backpack before he walked into his house. If his dad was still awake, he wouldn't know how to explain where he'd gotten the garment. He wasn't even sure if his old man would notice that he'd been gone all night, much less that he'd gotten himself a new coat, but last time he'd banked on his drunken unawareness, he'd only gotten him a couple of cracked ribs and a busted up face. He wasn't going to be careless again.

"So, ya finally 'cided ta come home, huh?" His father came staggering out the living room to meet him, his eyes red rimmed and furious. Daryl met his gaze head on. After the night with Rick, he was suddenly feeling empowered. As if scum like his father couldn't hurt him, even though there was a rational part of his mind screaming that he _could _hurt him, and he would.

"If it ain't that hard for y'all ta believe, I actually have friends." It suddenly hit Daryl how he couldn't have even said that a week ago, and something about it made him feel warm.

His father just sneered at him. "Sure, sure, y've friends," he slurred, and Daryl was having a hard time understanding him. Bells went off in his head when he saw the bottle of vodka clenched in his hand, but the high from his dinner with Rick's family still didn't dissipate. He hoped that his father would stagger off before he had a chance to ruin the euphoria.

But his father wasn't done talking. "Why would anyone e'er wanna hang out with ya, anyway? Y'aint worth nothin', boy. Didn'tcha get the fuckin' message?" He chuckled drunkenly.

Daryl's body went rigid when his father referenced the whippings, the times with the knife. If anything had scarred him more than that, it was the words his father had screamed at him while he did it. All happiness whooshed out of him in less than a second, and it left him wary and afraid of what was to come next. His eyes, so brashly trained on his father, slid to the floor, and his back hunched as he instinctively tried to make himself smaller. His old man noticed, took it as a reason to go even further with his taunts.

"Ya jus' ruin e'rything ya touch," his father rambled on. "Wasted all my money payin' for yer worthless ass, chased yer brother away. . ."

"I didn't do none of that!" Daryl suddenly snapped, the mention of his brother too much for him to handle. His father's eyes angrily met his, a bit of shock in them, and Daryl automatically shifted his gaze away.

"Y'all didn't, huh?" His father began to chuckle mirthlessly. "You're tryin' ta tell me that yer brother ne'er took the beatin's for ya? That he ne'er went to juvie fer stealin' food ta feed ya?"

Daryl swallowed thickly, realizing that his father was right. All the shit that had happened to Merle _was _because of him. He would've had a lot less to worry about if he didn't have to take care of his helpless baby brother. Daryl choked back the guilt.

"And you're sixteen and you still ain't workin'. Least Merle tried ta make himself useful, handlin' two jobs so that y'all'd have a house to live in." He laughed bitterly, taking another swig from his bottle of liquor. "See, if I were 'im, I'd have taken ya out into the woods and snuffed ya out all quiet-like. Ain't no one who woulda cared enough ta look for ya, anyway. And there ain't gonna be no one who will, either."

Daryl thought of Rick, then, his kind, smiling face. And his mother, the way she kissed his forehead like he belonged there, like he was already part of her family. And he couldn't forget Hazel, who curled up in his lap trusted him to hold her, even though she should've been keeping as far away as possible from him. They were too beautiful, too beautiful to be caught up with someone like him. He didn't know how he could ever walk back into their house knowing that he was just going to taint them. He didn't know if he could bring himself to do that to people who had been kinder to him than he deserved.

Suddenly fighting tears, he pushed his way past his father, convinced by now that he just wanted to kick him around emotionally, not physically. Probably only because he was too drunk.

He slammed his door and locked it on his father's jeering laughter, waiting until he heard the television turn on before he pulled Rick's jacket out of his backpack, holding it close to him, letting the clean scent of his friend fill his senses. He patted the pockets of the coat, hoping that, by a long shot, Rick had forgotten something in them, something that he could keep with him just in case he decided to do the right thing and make it so he never saw Rick or his family again. He didn't find anything until the last pocket, which crinkled with the sound of what he recognized was paper. He unbuttoned the compartment and pulled a slender little piece of paper out of it, torn on whether or not he should invade Rick's personal privacy like this. He'd been hoping for a paper clip, a pair of gloves, maybe—not a damned note.

But he couldn't stop his trembling fingers from unfolding the note, trying to make out the neatly scrawled words on it in the din of his room. He almost dropped the piece of paper when he realized that it was addressed to him.

_Daryl, _he read. _My number's on the back. Call me if you need me, or if you just want to talk. I'm here for either. Rick. _

He could see where Rick had erased the little note what looked like a thousand times after he'd written Daryl's name, evidently struggling for the words. He tried to make out the other drafts of the simple little note, but he could discern the words _really like you _and _get to know you _from the collection of smudges_. _He smiled a little and turned the note over, staring at the number scribbled there until he had it committed to memory. He put the note back into Rick's—his, he corrected—jacket and stuffed the garment into the back of his closet where his father wouldn't be able to find it. He didn't want to think of his reaction if he read that note, so he didn't, promising himself that he would never let it happen. Daryl laid back on his bed, strangely comfortable—if a little confused—with the fact that a few words written by that damned cop could have him smiling like a damn idiot.

Even as Daryl kept trying to tell himself that he should stay away from Rick, he knew that, if he weren't sick and unbelievably tired, if he didn't have a father who was sitting drunk out of his mind right next to the phone, he would have picked it up and called Rick right then and there.

* * *

"Hey, Daryl!"

Daryl turned around slowly, smiling a little when he recognized Glenn's voice. "Hi, Glenn," he said, waiting for his friend to catch up with him before quickening his gait. "Where you goin'?"

"Lunch," Glenn said. "How 'bout you?"

"Study hall," Daryl replied. "I was gonna go to the library."

"I'm going out to get some pizza," Glenn said, hefting his backpack up so it was resting more comfortably on his shoulders. "You wanna come?"

Daryl considered it for a moment, but then he realized he didn't have any money. "Don't have any cash on me," he said, and the disappointment he let color his tone wasn't entirely synthetic.

"I'll pay for you!" Glenn offered brightly. "You can give me the money whenever you have it."

Daryl shrugged. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I don't wanna go alone. Maggie's at home to help her father take care of a sick horse." Daryl shook his head at the endearing lost-puppy look on his face.

Shifting uncomfortably for a little bit, Daryl finally nodded. "Sure. Ain't like I got someplace else ta be."

"Awesome. C'mon, my car's out in the lot."

They walked a little faster as the time in the forty-five minute period ticked away, and Daryl was enthusiastic at the thought of eating some real pizza. The only pizza he'd ever had was some frozen shit Merle had nicked from the supermarket, and it wasn't the most pleasant thing to eat, charred as it was by their campfire. For pizza to be virtually everyone's favorite food, it had to be good, and Daryl wasn't about to say that he wasn't excited to taste it.

He just listened and hummed at the appropriate placed as Glenn rambled on about the place being good, how they would get a discount because he worked there on weekends as a delivery boy. He also talked about how he was shocked his mother even let him get the job, as obsessed with his grades as she was. The mention of working reminded him of his father's words after he'd come home from Rick's house, and the little smirk he had on his lips fled.

Of course, Glenn noticed. "Hey, you with me?"

Daryl nodded quickly, grunting indifferently. "Yeah, I jus'—"

"Hey, Dixon!" a raucous voice called from behind them, and Daryl froze mid-speech at the belligerent vibes he could feel emanating toward him. He knew that voice. "Thought even you could find better company than some chink."

Glenn ducked his head at the slur, and Daryl noticed with a hint of rage that he looked far too used to the insult. He tugged at Daryl's arm. "C'mon, let's just go," he muttered, trying to keep walking. Daryl took his arm out of Glenn's grasp, uncomfortable with the contact and also unwilling to leave this alone so quickly. Glenn gave him a pleading look, but Daryl ignored him, turning around to face the aggressor.

"Got something ta say, prick?" he asked in a deadly, quiet voice, narrowing his eyes at the jock. He suddenly realized why he knew his voice. It was Jon Stephens, the quarterback of their football team. Surprisingly enough, he was alone; for once, he didn't have his posse as backup like he usually did when he picked a fight with Daryl.

"Daryl, don't—it's not worth it," Glenn said nervously, but it only served to make Daryl even angrier when he realized that this was part of some sick routine for his friend.

Jon laughed stupidly. "He a real pussy, ain't he? Can't say I'm surprised, comin' from a Chinaman and all."

Daryl slowly walked forward until he was directly in front of the jock. He was much taller than Daryl, but even he couldn't hold his piercing gaze for long, choosing rather to let his eyes flicker to Glenn in the foreground. "Call 'im that again, and you're gonna have a bigger problem ta worry about," Daryl ground out.

"Yeah, and what's that?" Jon sneered, taking his own step forward so he was nose to nose with Daryl.

"I'll beat your ass into the ground," he hissed, and he didn't miss the concern-addled rage that filled the brute's eyes. It was soon taken over with contempt, and Daryl bit back his fury. That was how his brother always looked at him before he got big enough to defend himself.

"I'd like to see you try."

Daryl didn't respond other than to put a hand on the jock's broad shoulder and push him back roughly. He staggered backward, his face a mask of anger. Daryl didn't respond as he shoved his hands into Rick's jean jacket, sending a warning glare over his shoulder at Jon as he walked back to rejoin Glenn.

"This ain't over, Dixon!" Jon hollered, and Daryl didn't give him the satisfaction of looking at him, did nothing but flip him the finger.

Glenn looked at him with a little smile. "Thanks," he murmured as Daryl got into hearing distance. "No one's ever— Holy shit, Daryl, watch out!"

Daryl whirled around without hesitation, ducking down instinctively to miss the swinging fist heading straight for his head. He let out a little grunt as he crouched down to the ground, a twinge of pain going through his nearly-healed ribs. He let out a feral snarl when he realized that the douchebag had been stupid enough to engage him in a fight, and he knew dodging his blows wasn't going to be enough to deter him from his warpath.

Jon looked shocked that Daryl had been able to evade his attack. Then again, he didn't know that Daryl had a big brother who had been beating on him since he'd been old enough to walk. Sure, this asshole was the star of the football team, but Daryl had been in more near-death situations than he'd like to admit. He had the upper hand in this fight, and Jon had no idea how fucked he was, picking a fight one on one with a Dixon. Daryl grinned wildly.

The bastard came barreling at him again, teeth clenched as he prepared to knock him down. Daryl immediately located three weak points in his stance and aimed, delivering a swift uppercut to his jaw followed by a forceful kick to his abdomen. A pain so intense flared through his ribs that he thought he had cracked them again. A dormant part of his brain told him to take it easy before that worry was ensured, but the rage in him was far too aggressive to ignore. Daryl landed a final punch to Jon's face that completely threw him off balance, letting his careful tactics do their work.

Daryl kneeled down next to Jon after he'd fallen down, just as he'd predicted. He fisted his hands in the douchebag's tee-shirt, hauling him up so that he was close to his face. "It ain't over, huh?" he growled, and the jock just coughed weakly, hands going to rub at his sore gut. Daryl punched him in the same place again, eliciting a pained cry from the pansy fucker. "Listen, and you listen close. If y'all or your stupid fuckin' friends ever fuck with 'im again, I ain't gonna go easy. And believe me when I tell you that I know how ta hide a corpse."

Daryl was bluffing, of course, but he didn't think it would be that difficult with an entire woods at his disposal. Still, he just wanted to scare this asshole, not actually kill him, and his lie would do the trick. Everyone knew the reputation of the Dixons, the assortment of hunting rifles and weapons his father kept in his tiny shed. All Daryl had to do was show them that he wasn't the weak link in the Dixon line, and he thought that he'd done that pretty effectively. He didn't _want_ to be like his father or brother, and maybe that was why he didn't do this before. But it'd just gone too far this time for him to deny it any longer. He _was _a Dixon, and he couldn't ever change that. He tried to not let that little detail bother him too much, but he wasn't very successful.

Sure enough, his threat worked, and Jon was nodding, blubbering something incoherent. Daryl released the front of his shirt with disgust, letting his head crack against the tiled floor of the school. He figured that his skull would be hard enough where it wouldn't do him any serious damage—not that he actually cared.

"His name's Glenn Rhee," Daryl added as he stood above the whimpering football player, who was curling in on himself to nurse his bruised stomach. "Not chink or Chinaman. If I ever hear you call him anything other than his damned fuckin' name. . ." He trailed off for effect, letting Jon's imagination do the rest of the work. Once he was sure that he'd been heard loud and clear, he returned to Glenn for the last time, sure he wouldn't have to deal with another sneak attack.

Glenn was staring at him with a mixture of mild fear and awe as Daryl flexed his fist, sore from the blow he'd delivered on Jon's jaw. No matter how careful you were, punching the face always hurt like a bitch, since it was bone against bone. He'd cracked a few knuckles a few times after landing a couple of blows on Merle's face during their "rough-housing", so he knew he'd gotten off easy. Still, his hand was aching something awful.

Then, Glenn started smiling like some goofy kid, and Daryl raised an eyebrow, letting his arm fall to his side. "What?" he asked roughly, voice still a little gravelly from the tone he'd adopted when threatening Jon.

"Dude, you are a major badass."

Daryl just smiled a little shyly, ducking his head a little at what he took as a compliment. "Weren't nothin'," he said dismissively, gesturing for them to continue walking out into the parking lot.

"Like hell it wasn't! You just kicked the shit out of the _quarterback of the football team_," Glenn said with exaggerated eagerness, trailing after him like an excited little puppy. "Do you know how cool that is?"

He shrugged. The beating was long overdue. Daryl had just never gotten a chance to get Jon on his own before, and hearing him insult Glenn so naturally, like he'd done it a thousand times, seeing the way that the excited light went out of his friend's eyes was too much for him. He didn't really care so much what those fuckers did to him. He'd been getting a lot worse for as long as he could remember. But Glenn wasn't like that, and he'd be damned if he let those assholes fuck with him.

"Hey, Daryl?" Glenn asked after he pointed out where his car was in the lot.

He grunted questioningly when Glenn didn't take his silence as permission to speak.

"You don't really know how to hide a body, do you?"

He looked at Glenn seriously, his eyebrows raised, and the kid did a double-take. The nervousness on his friend's face was too much for him to keep his deadpan expression, and he started laughing despite himself. Glenn grinned in relief, and it only made Daryl laugh harder.

"Nah, but don't be tellin' anyone that," Daryl said earnestly. "Y'all ruin my reputation."

The admiration and respect Daryl could see in his eyes made him blush a little, ducking his head. Suddenly, Daryl realized why Merle had spent their childhood protecting him. It was a good feeling, taking hardship for someone else when you knew you could handle it. But he promised himself he wouldn't abuse this power he had over people. That was where his brother had gone wrong, and he wouldn't repeat the mistake no matter what. Yes, he was a Dixon, but he was _Daryl_ Dixon—the one and only.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **I don't know why, but I was eager to get this up for you guys. Huh. You guys have been reviewing a lot more recently, so here's your present—an update in three days. Keep giving me your feedback, please! It makes me so happy. Oh, and, Mayeri, I just wanted to give you a special mention, because I really, really appreciate you coming out of being a ghost reader and diligently reviewing every chapter of mine. It means more than I can tell you. And thanks to the rest of you who reviewed; reading your comments is seriously the best motivation to keep writing.

All right, here you go. The eighth chapter. Just, don't kill me for how it ends, because people were quite murderous after reading it. . . .

* * *

A loud bang had Daryl startling awake, and his heart was hammering erratically in his chest as he looked around to find the threat. He relaxed a bit when he realized that he was alone in his room, that the lock on his door was still fastened. He released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, cringing at the way his shirt clung to him. Even in the spring, Georgian nights were uncomfortably warm—but he never went shirtless. Having the scars exposed just to the _air _made them burn. It was a reminder he really just didn't need.

Once his pulse calmed its deafening beat in his ears, he turned his senses toward whatever had made the bang, picked up on the sound of someone shuffling around none too quietly in the kitchen. He immediately thought it would be his father, but Daryl knew that he was out with his drinking buddies. He shouldn't be home for a few days. That only left—

"Baby brother!"

Daryl squeezed his eyes shut. It _was _him. Seven months, and Merle was already out of jail. He really shouldn't be surprised. His brother had contacts everywhere, and, even though he should have been in lockup for at least a few years for the drugs he'd had in his system, he was already home. Daryl wondered if maybe he'd gotten out on good behavior. He snorted at the thought. Good behavior and Merle didn't exist.

Daryl jumped to his feet and peeled his shirt off of him and replaced it, and he was glad all over again that he didn't keep a mirror in his room. Then, he went to go unlock his door when he could hear Merle's footsteps pounding toward his room to give him hell for ignoring his summon. His big brother would only be angrier if he found that Daryl'd locked him out, so he quietly slid the lock back from its place across the door and slipped back into bed so he'd be none the wiser.

Less than a second after, his door slammed open and hit the wall, the sheet rock already smashed in by the several times either Daryl's brother or father crashed into his room. Even though he'd been expecting it, he jumped, and he was glad Merle hadn't come through the door yet. He never liked when Daryl flinched at the things he did. He wondered if it ever crossed his mind to stop being a loud, violent motherfucker, but he figured that was a nearly impossible train of thought for his brother to have.

"Still sleepin'?" Merle asked, and Daryl rolled his eyes, looking at the clock.

"It's only seven, asshole," Daryl responded, rubbing his eyes. He'd been up late talking to Rick on the phone, so he'd probably only gotten about three or four hours of sleep. They had a little thing, him and Rick, where they talked on the phone every Friday late into the night. Together, they would talk in hushed whispers, and Rick didn't ask why he kept his voice so soft. He just imitated his tone, even though he didn't have an asshole father sleeping a few yards away who could wake up at any second and beat the shit out of him. It was like he did it just to make Daryl more comfortable, and he couldn't deny that that was exactly what it did.

As he thought fondly of Rick, he suddenly remembered that they were supposed to hang out today. Rick was coming to pick him up at eleven-thirty, which he decided because he refused to let Daryl get anything less than eight hours of sleep. And now, he had his asshole big brother who had hated any friends Daryl had tried to make ever since he was in kindergarten to contend with. Funny that, of all the times Daryl yearned for Merle to come home sooner than planned from his stints in juvie, the one time he'd miraculously come home, Daryl wanted the exact opposite. The thought of Merle confronting the cop made him cringe, and he realized that he didn't want any part of his family near Rick. He bit his lip nervously at the dilemma.

"Hey, are you listenin' ta me, Darylina?" Merle asked, waving a hand in front of Daryl's face. Daryl jerked back from him, glaring reproachfully at the sudden proximity and the humiliating nickname alike.

Merle scoffed, taking Daryl's silence as an admittance to the fact that he wasn't paying attention. "I asked you if you had any cash."

Daryl sighed. He should've known this would be the only reason Merle would ever come home. "No, Merle. I'm still broke from last time." Daryl tried to ignore how resigned his voice sounded. "What d'ya need it for?"

"Ta pay for this." Merle held up a brown paper bag, smiling wildly. From his dilated pupils and bloodshot eyes, Daryl knew that he'd already dipped into the stash. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as he stared at it. "Figured we'd celebrate my homecomin'. What d'ya say, little brother?"

In the past, he would've said yes. Weed was mild, took his mind off things. It didn't make him angry like alcohol did, and it wouldn't fuck him up like acid. And Merle wasn't prone to sharing with him, so getting offered the shit was a big deal. But now, Daryl didn't want any part of it. He felt like he didn't need it. "Nah, Merle. I'm going out."

"Goin' out where?"

"With a friend."

He didn't miss how Merle's expression darkened, wrath flickering in his dark blue eyes. "Tell me this, baby brother. Who exactly's more important than yer big brother?"

"It ain't that, Merle. I got plans, and I jus' don't wanna get high. That all right?" Daryl lowered his eyes, unable to face the anger in his brother's gaze. He didn't like when that look was directed at him, had spent most of childhood trying to avoid exactly that.

Daryl got up out of bed, yanking some clothes out his drawer before he pushed by Merle to get to the phone in the living room. He ignored how his brother walked quietly after him. He didn't want Merle to hear this conversation, but it looked like there was no avoiding it. He dialed the number quickly and pressed the receiver to his ear, waiting impatiently for an answer.

It picked up on the second ring, and Rick's sleepy voice answering with a slurred "Hello?" had Daryl grinning like an idiot. He hid the smile from his brother.

"Morning, sunshine," Daryl said. It was a nickname Daryl'd been using for the cop ever since they met in the police station.

"Daryl?" Rick automatically sounded more alert when he realized who it was on the other line.

"Yeah, s'me," he responded, looking warily over at his brother to see his reaction. Merle's face was impassive, but he could see the irritation there that Daryl was talking on the phone rather than to him. He decided to continue ignoring him.

"Is something wrong?"

Daryl sighed, because Rick really sounded concerned. He'd been so adamant when he told him the exact times that he could call him, and Saturday mornings were never mentioned. Mostly because that was his father's day off from his part time job at the bar. And Rick wasn't allowed to call him; it always had to be Daryl.

"Nah, nothin'. I jus' wanted to know when you were comin'."

He was trying to discreetly tell Rick that he wanted a change in their plans. Rick had gotten good at picking up on his signals, knowing what he was trying to say when he didn't feel comfortable saying it. His friend always seemed to know when he was feeling overwhelmed or cornered, and he always found a way to slip away from their company with Daryl and let him chill out a bit. Hopefully, he'd pick up on the strain in Daryl's voice as he tried to get away from his brother, who probably planned to get him so drunk and high he couldn't see straight.

And, of course, Rick got the hint. He just knew him too well to think he'd have forgotten when they planned to hang out. "You want me to come later or somethin'?"

"No," Daryl said, putting in a laugh so Merle would be none the wiser about what they were talking about.

"Earlier, then?" Daryl could hear the worry in his voice. "When?"

"Uh-huh," he responded, ducking his head. He could feel Merle's eyes burning into him curiously. "I just woke up a few minutes ago, man."

"I'll be there in a half an hour." Daryl smiled. Only Rick would know the significance of mentioning when he'd woken up, and he thanked the heavens for having a friend that wasn't too fucked up on drugs to actually use his head.

"'kay, see you then." Daryl reluctantly took the phone away from his ear and set it in its cradle, already missing the sound of Rick's voice.

"Who the fuck was that?" Merle asked, and Daryl winced at the anger in his voice.

"A friend. He's gonna be here soon."

Daryl walked by Merle, catching a whiff of the weed clutched in his hand. If the scent was anything to go by, that was some strong shit. He shook his head as he realized that Merle's excursion outside lockup was going to be pretty short-lived. Daryl walked toward the bathroom before he was stopped by a hand curling around his bicep. He flinched at the pain that lanced through a gash in his arm, courtesy of his father. The son of a bitch had been waving a damn broken beer bottle at him when he'd come home late from hunting last week. But Merle didn't seem to notice; he never did. He just glared at him until Daryl quit trying to get away. Mostly to get him to drop his arm, because having his brother grab him like that hurt the slash like a bitch.

"You seriously gonna blow off your own big brother for some friend?" Merle asked incredulously. "Ya haven't seen me in seven months!"

"Longer than that," Daryl spat out bitterly.

"I was only in the cooler for seve—"

"I ain't talkin' 'bout jail, Merle. You weren't never home before that, either. Jus' long enough ta steal some cash or give me your damn drugs. The only time y'ever come home is when ya want somethin'!"

Merle looked taken aback by Daryl's outburst, and he was afraid of what his big brother would do when he recovered from the shock. But he only got back his gusto, glaring down at Daryl. "Maybe I would'a come home more if I had a brother who showed some damn gratitude."

Daryl gazed at him in angry disbelief. "Go to hell, Merle. What the fuck do I have to be fuckin' grateful for, huh?"

Maybe he would've believed Merle if he hadn't met Rick, hadn't seen what a healthy family was _supposed _to be. Big brothers were supposed to tease their little siblings, not take away every feeling of self-worth. Big brothers were supposed to tuck their younger siblings in for bedtime and kiss their foreheads to keep them safe, not get them drunk and leave them to throw up for the entire night. Sure, maybe Merle'd done the best he could, tried to protect him from their old man, but he hadn't done anything, really, in the end. Daryl was scarred just as he was, maybe worse off because he'd gotten used to better treatment in the beginning with Merle around.

Merle grabbed his face and forced him to look up at him, and Daryl met his gaze evenly. He could see a bit of uncertainty there. He wasn't used to Daryl going against anything he said. "Who the fuck protected your worthless ass, huh, Darylina? Who kept Daddy from makin' you his whippin' boy?"

Daryl didn't scream at him, didn't tell him how wrong he was. He just ripped himself out of his brother's grip and backed away, fists raised in a defensive position to show Merle that he would fight back if he kept trying to touch him. His brother scoffed at him and stepped a little closer, but he didn't reach out and try to grab him.

"Man, baby brother. I'd like to see the guy who made you his bitch."

"I ain't nobody's bitch," Daryl hissed, narrowing is eyes. "Now, get outta my way. I gotta shower."

Surprisingly, he listened, and Daryl slipped into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it. He could hear Merle trying to taunt him from outside in the hall, and he turned on the sink to drown out his brother's voice, splashing cold water in his face, like he was trying to flush away the anger his brother never failed to bring out in him. His brother had that in common with his father; he always knew what to say to make Daryl angry. Except Merle was all talk; he never hit him, never beat him. His father, on the other hand, just tried to justify kicking the shit out him with some twisted notion that Daryl had acted out. Maybe that was just his twisted morality showing, but it seemed he always had to say something to get under his son's skin before he turned to his fists. Daryl shuddered and turned the water off, relieved when he heard the sound of the television running in the other room.

Daryl made a quick business of undressing, making sure the shower was running for a few seconds before he started, just so his time in front of the mirror would be minimal. He hated seeing his scars like they weren't _part _of him. It was bad enough looking down and just seeing a web of raised marks and lines, but at least there was no disconnect. Staring in a mirror reminded him of how other people would see him if they ever saw him. Reminded him that no one would ever be able to look at him—all of him—without turning away in disgust. So he kept his eyes firmly averted from the mirror and stepped into the shower.

The water was only a bit hotter than lukewarm, and that was a bonus. Usually, he had to take ice cold showers, and he was forced to keep those pretty damn short. He sighed when he realized he'd still have to make a quick business of this shower, too, and he wouldn't be able to enjoy the brief moment in time where his house actually got some decently warm water. Maybe he would tell Merle, try to keep him from getting stoned so early in the day. Though, he wouldn't put it past his brother to take a joint in the shower with him. Or maybe some liquor.

Daryl vigorously scrubbed his hair with a bar of soap, twisting his fingers in the strands until they didn't feel greasy anymore. Sweat always did that to his hair, and last night had been a hot one, despite the fact it was only March. And Rick had a habit of carding his fingers through his hair occasionally, a gesture Daryl had slowly gotten used to. He didn't want his hair to be dirty under Rick's fingers. He moved to run the sudsy bar down his body, firmly closing his eyes when, even in its slicked state, it caught on the scars ripping up his stomach.

He even brushed his teeth in the shower, just to make a quick affair of it. He pointlessly tried to wash away the ever-present taste of cigarettes in his mouth, but to no avail. It was one habit he couldn't break, and he'd been doing it less since he met Rick. He didn't really think that his friend would get pissed at him for having them underage. Rather, Rick would be angry that he was doing something so intrinsically bad for him. But it was something Merle had gotten him started on when he was ten, and it was about the only thing that could calm him down. Other than Rick, he amended, but when he was home or at school, smoking was a shitty substitute that he wished he didn't need.

Jesus, his thoughts were depressing as fuck today. He blamed Merle. With the way his brother was inciting him, Daryl was going to need another cigarette before he hung out with Rick just to calm his nerves. If he didn't get his shit together, Rick, already suspicious, would know something was up and ask him about it. He found it harder and harder to lie to the son of a bitch, too, and he really didn't want to talk about his family or drugs or how much of a douche his big brother was.

Stepping out the shower, Daryl immediately pulled a shitty ripped towel out from the corner of the tiny bathroom and wrapped it around his waist, happy to see that the water had at least been warm enough to fill the room with steam so he wouldn't have to see himself. He dried himself as best he could with the towels, trying to get around the fact that they resembled stiff pieces of cardboard more than anything, and shrugged into his shirt. It was one of Merle's, old and tattered, but it was plain, didn't have the name of some shitty band Daryl hated imprinted across its front. Rick had confided in him that he'd been nervous to listen to music around Daryl at first because of those damn shirts, and he'd assured him that they'd belonged to his brother and that he didn't listen to the metal shit his brother liked. Daryl really liked anything that was meaningful and the vocals weren't shit, and the stuff that Rick listened to always fit into that category.

Next were his boxers and his jeans, which had a hole in the knee. Luckily, he didn't have any scars on his legs that he wanted to hide, so he could still wear the pants. Still, looking at the gaping rip made him remember how it'd gotten there, and that was a memory that never failed to piss him off. So intent on his prey while he hunted, he'd gotten snagged on some brambles, and they'd _seriously_ ripped the worn fabric of his jeans. Just his fucking luck.

Daryl was quiet when he tiptoed back into his room, trying to let Merle think he was still showering. It was a diversionary tactic that wouldn't last for long, but he had to try. But then he realized that he should have known better, because his brother obviously would've been listening for the sound of the water to cease, something Daryl couldn't control, not for the door to open, and that was why he was lying across Daryl's bed, his dirt-cached boots on the comforter. Once upon a time, Daryl would have told him to put his damned feet somewhere else, but it'd been a long while since he learned that Merle didn't do anything he didn't want to do.

"What the fuck, man?" Merle asked, looking him up and down. Daryl shifted uncomfortably. "You're gettin' all cleaned up for this guy?"

Daryl didn't respond at first, because Merle had a point. He never really gave a shit what he looked like, never had a reason to. He looked up to see a sly little smirk come over his big brother's face. "Ooh, I know. It's a girl, ain't it? Fuckin' Christ, Darylina, why didn't you say so? Who's the unlucky bitch?" A leer came over his face, and Daryl clenched his fists to fight the urge to launch himself at his brother. He knew his brother wasn't talking about Rick, but somehow he took the words as if they _were_ directed at the cop. He couldn't stop rage from filling him at the thought.

"Ain't no chick, dickhead," Daryl muttered, going over to fish some mismatched socks out from another drawer in his dresser. He stuck his feet inside his construction boots and laced them up, turning his back to Merle. Then, his eyes caught sight of the jean jacket he kept carefully hidden in the corner of his closet, and he reached toward it subconsciously. He could already tell it was going to be a warm day, and he wasn't going to need a jacket, but he wanted it anyway. He pulled the soft fabric close to his face, let the hardly-there scent of it waft over him. He'd still need that damn cigarette, but this was pretty effective at calming him down, too.

He stood up and stuck his arms into the jacket, pulling at it so that it sat comfortably on his shoulders. When he turned around, he found Merle looking him up and down curiously.

"Where'd you get that? Don't remember ever givin' it to you."

Daryl shrugged. "Needed a coat for winter, worked some odd jobs ta pay for it," he lied flawlessly. Merle would beat the shit out of him if he found out that he'd gotten it from someone else.

"Don't look too warm," Merle commented, and Daryl could tell that he was just looking for any opportunity to give his little brother a hard time.

"Mild winter," he said offhandedly. Merle didn't know it, but it was a total lie. It had been a brutal fucking winter, and he was glad that he spent the majority of it in Rick's heated car or in his warm house with his family. His father ran out of the money for the heat somewhere in the middle of December, and there was an unspoken rule in the household that they didn't use the fireplace. After what happened to his mother, it was a decision that, for once, Daryl had to agree with.

"You goin' now?" Daryl looked up at the soft tone of his brother's voice warily. He knew it could raise into a yell at the drop of a hat. There was an unreadable, conflicted expression on Merle's face, and Daryl didn't know what to make of it.

"Yeah," Daryl said, and he let go of the anger he'd felt for his brother. He walked over and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. Merle looked at him in surprise; it was a big fucking deal for Daryl to touch _anyone_. "Good to have ya back, bro."

He may be pissed at him, but this was his _brother. _It wasn't his fault that he wasn't the same as Daryl, and, with the childhood they'd had, how could he really blame him for being the way he was? Daryl knew that he'd been on the same path before he met Rick, even if he was ashamed to admit it. And he remembered his big brother before the drugs and alcohol came into play. It hadn't lasted for long, because Merle had started stealing booze from their father's liquor cabinet when he was twelve, but Daryl had a hell of a memory. He remembered the times that Merle kept his father from beating on him for crying too loud before his baby brother knew better.

"Yeah, fuck you," Merle said, but there was a little smile tugging at his lips. "Go easy on that chick."

Daryl shook his head and withdrew his hand, going over to the door of his bedroom. "Shut up, douchebag. I'm tellin' ya, it's jus' a friend. Also, the hot water's workin'. Y'should take advantage of that shit."

Merle's eyes lit up. "You serious?" He moaned in anticipation when Daryl nodded. "Haven't had a proper shower since I got outta the cooler."

Daryl narrowed his eyes. "When'd ya get out?"

"Last week," Merle responded nonchalantly, and Daryl clenched his hands into fists.

"Where the fuck were you?" He viciously swiped a pack of cigarettes off from his shitty, self-made shelf and tucked them into his coat pocket. He was really going to need them.

"Sortin' some stuff out, little brother."

Daryl scoffed and made to leave, any fondness for his brother dissipating. He slammed his bedroom door after him, ignoring Merle's yelled questions. If the fucker couldn't have been bothered to come see his little brother before anyone else after getting out of lockup, Daryl didn't have to answer his stupid fucking questions.

The Dixon breathed out a sigh of relief when he was out in the open air. Even though he thought it'd be overly warm with his jacket on, the strong March breeze crept underneath it, ventilating him properly. It was a beautiful day, and he hoped that Rick had planned something outside for their excursion. Maybe he would finally give into his friend's requests and take him hunting. He'd been unwilling in the beginning, because hunting was something that was just for him and maybe Merle, but he was starting to think that maybe it wouldn't be so bad, bringing Rick along.

Daryl slipped a cigarette out of the pack and held it steady in between his lips so he could light it. He took a long drag on it, felt his body absorb whatever the fuck was in the damn things that calmed him down. He felt his frazzled nerves from his multiple confrontations with his brother begin to mellow out until they were at the back of his mind, driven out by the smoke and the pleasant buzz it gave him. He breathed out slowly, let the smoke escape him through his nose and his mouth, watched it travel up skyward, spreading out in the open air until it wasn't visible anymore.

He kept his eyes firmly fixated on the woods just behind the houses of his neighbors as he walked to the corner of his street, where he waited for Rick to pick him up. He didn't want to be reminded of the shit neighborhood he lived in; no, he preferred to watch the only thing he could fondly look back on in his childhood. The forest had become his sanctuary, the place he could run away to when his father crossed a line that pervasively kept edging itself further away until it just couldn't anymore. Maybe that was why he was reluctant to bring his friend out there, but he knew that was selfish. Rick had had no qualms about letting Daryl into his family, letting him spend time with the people who were just as sacred to him as Daryl's woods. He took another drag from his cigarette to suppress the guilt that was suddenly on his mind, let the smoke push it, just like his argument with his brother, to a secluded corner of his mind.

Daryl stopped at the corner of the street, leaned up against the vandalized sign that indicated his street name. He was pretty sure that Merle had been among the kids who had spray painted obscene things all over the sign and the pole alike, and he smirked. He remembered trailing after his brother a few times on those expeditions, and, back then, before he understood that it was wrong, he just enjoyed watching his brother get a serious high off of breaking the law. Honestly, it was a hell of a lot better seeing him getting buzzed from a boost of adrenaline rather than whatever drug he could get his hands on.

The metallic flash of a car had Daryl grinding his cigarette underneath his boot and kicking it into a nearby drain. No way in hell would any of the cars in his neighborhood have reason to shine like that, so he knew it was Rick. And he didn't feel like hearing a lecture about his unhealthy little habit. Plus, he felt like he was betraying his friend. The cop'd never rat him out, but he had the type of conscience that would eat at him for not trying to enforce the law like he was paid on a regular basis to do. If it wasn't wrong to do that to a friend, he didn't know what was.

Daryl pulled the car door open before Rick was even fully stopped in front of him, sliding lithely into the passenger seat. He turned to drink in the sight of Rick's smile, felt it wash away the worries that the nicotine couldn't eliminate entirely. He'd come to the realization after meeting the cop that true happiness was the only thing that could do it, as fucking cheesy as that sounded. Maybe those rambling assholes who came up with those proverbs or whatever the hell they were had a point.

"Hey, you," Rick said, looking a little bemused at Daryl's expression. He found that he wasn't embarrassed in the least, because Rick looked just as excited to see Daryl as Daryl was to see Rick.

"Hey," Daryl responded after a second. He took in the bags under Rick's eyes, and he suddenly remembered that Rick had been up just as late as he had. They had been talking on the phone, after all. "Sorry for the short notice."

"Don't worry 'bout it." Rick waved away his concerns. "I wouldn't wanna be sleepin' if you weren't."

Daryl rolled his eyes. "S'pretty stupid, if you ask me."

The cop shrugged and smiled crookedly. "Maybe, but s'how I feel. Anyway, I have a surprise for you."

He looked over at Rick, wondering what exactly that surprise would be. "What is it?" he asked, but he should've known it was stupid question at the sly little smirk on Rick's face.

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise," Rick said, pink lips turning up in a full-blown smile. Daryl huffed and folded his arms over his chest.

"It better be a damn puppy, or I'm gon' be pissed," he grumbled, fixing his eyes on the suburban backdrop they were rushing by.

Rick laughed, and Daryl turned his face away so that he wouldn't see that he'd cracked a smile. "All right, I'll tell you one thing: it ain't a puppy."

"Goddamnit. Fuck you and your surprises, then."

"Aw, c'mon. It's almost as good, I promise." When Daryl didn't respond, Rick put a false little plea in his voice. "You ain't givin' me the silent treatment, are you? This' is what I get for hangin' out with a sixteen-year-old. Shoulda known that Glenn was the only one who was mature for his—"

"Shut the fuck up, will you?" Daryl groaned, showing Rick his helpless grin. "Yer worse than Hazel."

Rick beamed at him impishly at that comment. "Funny you should say that," he said as he pulled the car to a stop.

"Wha—" He cut off when his passenger door opened, and something crawled into his lap, pulling at his tee-shirt. He blinked down at Rick's little sister, who was grinning up at him, missing baby teeth and all. "We're hangin' out with your sister?"

"Ma had to work an extra shift, asked me to babysit this little girl for a few hours. Figured we could jus' take her along for the ride after you called me, maybe go to the park."

"That right, brat? Your mama doesn't trust you home alone?" Daryl teased, tickling her sides. She writhed in his lap, and Daryl felt a slow grin spread over his face at the sound of her high pitched giggle. It was an imitation of what he'd seen Rick do with her on several occasions, and, for some reason, the fact that he could make her smile like that still bemused him.

She rolled her eyes at him and pouted. "It ain't that," Hazel declared. "I'm too little."

"Yeah, yeah. That's jus' what they tellin' ya," Daryl responded, and she smacked him playfully. He'd learned soon after hanging out with the little girl a few times that she didn't mean any harm, but the gesture still made his stomach flip with irrational fear. He swallowed it down and turned his attention back to Hazel. "All right, honey, you'd better climb on into the back."

"Why can't I stay here?" she asked, looking adorably miffed. They went through this every time they were in the damn car together. He groaned in mock frustration.

Just as Daryl opened his mouth to respond with the argument he _always _gave her, Rick cut him off. "Ah, s'all right. I'll drive slow, just buckle her in with you."

Hazel threw a triumphant little grin over her shoulder and sat dutifully in his lap while he put the seatbelt on over both of them. Daryl wasn't comfortable with this, because, if they got in an accident, Hazel would get hurt before he did. He knew he'd let himself die if it meant that either of the two people in the car with them would live. But she seemed too happy in his lap, leaning back into his chest, and he didn't say anything. He wasn't worried about Rick's driving, per se; he was worried about other people's. People like his brother, who got drunk and high and then put themselves behind a wheel. Thankfully, they were leaving the side of town that Daryl lived on, and that meant they had less of a chance of encountering those types.

"You wanna go to the park?" Rick asked. Daryl and Hazel, unsure who he was talking to, looked at each other and then back at Rick before nodding.

"Can we get some ice cream after?" Hazel asked. "Please?"

"Sure, sweetheart," Rick responded cheerfully, taking his eyes away from the road briefly to smile at the two of them. Daryl put his anxieties away and grinned back.

"How's stuff at the station?" Daryl asked, settling to wrap his arms around Hazel. She eased into his grip, snuggling into his chest. He relaxed his posture so that his chin was resting gently on the top of her head as he angled his face toward Rick.

"Pretty good," Rick said, grinning at the mention of his work. Daryl smiled a little helplessly at the fact that his first best friend was a cop. Who would've thought. "I think they're gonna gimme a promotion soon. I'm gonna be a trooper, and then a deputy sheriff."

"That's great, man. Congrats," Daryl responded. "I guess I ain't the only one who can put up with ya."

Rick rolled his eyes. "Shut it; they love me there." He turned the car into the lot of the park, pleased to find it nearly empty. "Looks like we have the place to ourselves," he said happily. Daryl sent out a silent praise to the heavens. He wouldn't say anything, because Rick would just worry and Hazel would pout, but he hated being around other people. He didn't like the way they looked at him. Sure, he was with Rick, the golden boy around town, but his ripped jeans, his long hair, his ratty old tee-shirts made him stick out. Even if they didn't necessarily know he was a Dixon, they knew what part of town he was from just by looking at him.

Daryl looked up when his car door opened, and Rick reached over him to unbuckle the seatbelt and pick Hazel up easily in his arms. Daryl nodded appreciatively at the man and got out of the vehicle, blinking out at the bright sunlight. The sun was just beginning it ascent to the top of sky's dome, but it was already blinding. He shielded his eyes against its glare and reveled in the warmth on his skin. Damn, he was glad winter was finally over.

"Where d'ya wanna go first, sweetie?" he heard Rick ask his kid sister, and he turned to find her propped up on his shoulders, dark brown curls clenched in tiny fists like reins.

"The swings!" Hazel responded immediately, tugging adamantly at Rick's hair.

"Ouch," Rick complained, but he was grinning. He tipped his head toward the swing set and looked at Daryl. "Swings sound good t'you?"

"Hell yeah," Daryl responded, and an impish little smile crept onto his face. "How much do you wanna bet I can swing higher than you?"

Rick's eyes narrowed at the challenge. "No way," he responded, incredulous. "I was the champ back in grammar school. S'the only thing I could ever beat Shane at."

Daryl blew out a disbelieving puff of air. "Yeah, you talk a pretty big game." He raised his eyebrows mischievously. "I ain't gonna believe you till I see some cold, hard proof."

"Well, c'mon, then. I'll take y'on. We're burnin' daylight as it is."

Daryl took off toward the playscape, and he heard Rick calling after him, "No fair! You don't have ta carry her!"

"Not my problem!" he called back, and he hardly noticed the pain in his arm as the motions of running jarred it. He upped his pace when he saw that Rick, with his long, slender legs, was gaining on him. He crashed into one of the swings, grabbing onto the cold chain on one side to haul himself back. He hung there for a few seconds, catching his breath before finally sitting down on the swing to wait patiently for Rick to arrive.

"I thought you were gonna get a head start," Rick said suspiciously as he approached, Hazel ducked low over his head like she was his pilot. He disentangled the little girl from his neck and placed her down on the swing next to Daryl, only slightly winded because he couldn't stop laughing long enough to get a full breath of air in.

"Eh, I don't need a head start ta kick yer ass," Daryl responded playfully.

Rick rolled his eyes. "In your dreams." He took the swing to the left of Daryl, a spiritedly determined look in his sky-blue eyes. Together, they began the countdown. "On your mark. . ." They both clenched their fists more tightly to the chains holding the swing's seat up. "Get set. . ." Feet hauled them backwards until they were standing on the tiptoes, getting all the initial height they could manage. "Go!"

Yanking their legs out from beneath them, they swung forwards, boot-clad feet reaching toward the cloudless blue sky. They were in perfect sync for the first few swings before Daryl began to employ his trick of perfect timing and manipulation of his weight. Soon, his arcs were much wider than Rick's, and he found himself flying nearly perpendicular to the ground. He grinned wolfishly at Rick's dumbfounded expression. "I told you I was good at this."

"Oh, shut up!" Rick yelled. Hazel, too, was trying to enter the competition, but her movements weren't coordinated enough to get her really going. He made a mental note to teach her how to swing properly, just like Merle had when they'd walked to the park when Daryl was little and their father was going off on them worse than usual. Only, he wouldn't make fun of her until she was close to tears, begging to know his secret.

"I bet you I can jump farther," Rick called out challengingly, and, by now, he had almost as much air as Daryl. He was impressed. Had Rick been watching his technique? It seemed like it.

"Huh, just like you could swing higher?" Daryl asked cheekily, fighting back the urge to laugh and let the sound of his voice get lost in the rushing air surrounding him.

"Pfft, this is different. We'll jump in three . . . two . . . one!"

Daryl released the swing and catapulted himself forward, carefully bending his legs so they wouldn't get too bad of a shock when he landed. He was used to doing this from all the times he'd climbed trees with Merle, seeing how high they could jump from before breaking a limb. Fracturing his leg, he'd learned the hard way what could happen when you kept your legs locked, but, honestly, he just considered himself lucky to have had a brother who knew how to take care of a broken bone. They didn't have the money for a hospital, but the fact that he could still walk with no trouble told him that his big brother's nostrums worked just as well.

Daryl skidded forward in the sand coating the bottom of the playscape, waiting until he'd slowed to a safe speed before letting himself topple into the ground. He flopped over on his back, chest heaving with his deep breaths of exhilaration, legs somehow burning pleasantly with the exertion of their swinging. He let an arm cover the top half of his face when the sun was just too bright to merely squint at. After a few seconds, he moved the arm to look around for Rick, sure that he'd won. But Rick wasn't anywhere nearer to the swing set, and Daryl arched his back and leaned back on his head to get a more thorough view of the space around him. His eyes bugged out of his head when he found Rick lying on his stomach, facing him, a few feet ahead, eyes glinting mischievously.

"Told you I'd win," Rick said triumphantly, smiling crookedly at him.

"How the _hell _did you do that?" Daryl asked, flipping over on his stomach so he could face his friend.

Rick shrugged. "I've never had someone come so close ta beatin' me before, though," he said thoughtfully.

Daryl raised an eyebrow. "How often do you come an' swing?" he asked, but it didn't sound contemptuous like it would've if it came out of his brother's mouth.

The cop laughed. "I have a six-year-old sister. What else'm I supposed ta do?"

Daryl already had a list of things, but he realized that none of them were legal. He shook his head in black humor. "Nothin'."

At the mention of Hazel, he looked around at the swing set, feeling guilty for ignoring her. His guilt quickly transformed into unadulterated panic when she wasn't on the swing where they'd last seen her. A quick look to his surroundings told him she wasn't _anywhere. _

He jumped to his feet, and Rick mimicked him immediately, concern replacing any happiness in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Where's Hazel?" he asked, and Rick quickly scanned the playscape, cussing loudly. "Jesus fucking Christ, she's not here, she's not here," Daryl chanted, shutting his eyes, trying to flush out the panic. She couldn't have gone far. She wasn't near the woods, not like he'd been. She wasn't going to get lost. He wouldn't _let _her get lost.

"Daryl, calm down, I'm sure she's around somewhere. . ." Rick made to put his hands on his shoulders, a placating gesture he'd adopted, but he jerked backward.

"Shut up," he snapped, and Rick took a step back, hurt in his eyes and in the twist of his mouth. Daryl couldn't bring himself to care, not with his own memories of being lost flooding his mind, overpowering as they connected themselves to Hazel. "This ain't a game, Grimes. We gotta find her."

Rick nodded, seeming to have recovered from Daryl's coarseness. He probably realized that it was just borne of anxiety, since Daryl had succumbed to his nervous habit of chewing the skin around his thumbs bloody. Rick gently reached forward and pulled his hand away from his mouth—slowly, so he wouldn't startle Daryl.

"C'mon, let's go," Rick said softly, and Daryl nodded. He found that, even in this state, Rick was able to calm him down. Then, he realized that Rick still hadn't dropped his hand, and he felt heat burning at the back of his neck. His eyes flickered up to look at the cop's face, and he cleared his throat. Rick startled a bit and dropped his hand, a blush creeping over his cheeks. He opened his mouth to say something, and that just made the heat underneath Daryl's skin spread to his ears.

"Hazel!" Daryl suddenly called out, more than eager to put an end to the suddenly awkward air between him and Rick. "Hazel, honey, where are ya? If you can hear me, you gotta call back, okay?"

He waited for a few seconds for a response, face falling when he didn't get one. Rick took over. "Hazel Judith Grimes!" he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. Daryl recognized it as a scare tactic of sorts, since that was the same tone Mrs. Grimes adopted when she was scolding her children—Daryl included. "If you can hear me, you get out here right now!" He paused. "You ain't gettin' any ice cream unless you do!"

They stood still with bated breath at the anticipated response, but none came. Rick turned to Daryl with fully realized worry. "That would'a brought her out for sure, if she could hear us," he muttered, chewing his lips until they were bright red. "Jesus Christ, why can't she just stay put?"

Daryl shook his head, vision blurring a bit. He'd taken his eyes off of her for a second, just wanted to have a laugh with Rick. How could things have gone so bad so quickly?

"We would'a seen 'er if she went that way," Daryl said, pointing in the direction they'd been facing on the swings. He felt his tracking instincts click into place, as if this were just another hunt. It helped drive the panic from his mind. But he had to swallow it down again when he saw that the area behind the park was nothing but tall, ominous-looking trees.

"She must'a gone into the woods," Rick said, seeming to have come to the same conclusion as Daryl. A hand went to his brow in Rick's version of a nervous tic. "Let's go."

Daryl nodded briskly and set off toward the woods. He started off at a quick walk, but then he was sprinting, his too-long jeans catching on the bottoms of his boots. Rick followed him closely, twigs cracking underneath his boots, and Daryl bit back the urge to snap at him for walking so loudly. They were looking for a little girl, not hunting.

The Dixon's eyes caught sight a broken twig underfoot, too thick to have been snapped by an animal. Hazel. He crouched down by it, looking around for footprints.

"You find anything?" Rick asked, hovering behind him.

Daryl shushed him, all of his attention on the trail ahead of him. "She went that way," he said in a monotone, hurrying forward. "She's here." He was going to find her. Thank _Christ, _he was going to find her.

He rushed forward, but not too quickly where he would lose the trail. She'd hesitated here, probably to look at the beautiful white flower blooming among the overgrown ferns on the ground. He paused, staring at the blossom, feeling enchanted by it. He couldn't work out why until his mother's voice suddenly echoed in his ears, telling the story of this flower. Cherokee rose, his mind supplied as he looked at the white petals and the yellow center.

"Daryl?" Rick said from behind him. "What goin' on?"

"Nothin'," Daryl responded absently, making to continue on. But he halted again, eyes still fixed on the rose. He turned and grasped the flower at the stem, pulling it free from the ground. He was glad Rick didn't question him. There were some things he wanted to keep to himself.

After Daryl tucked the flower into the interior pocket of his jacket, he continued walking, eyes carefully scanning the forest floor so he wouldn't get the multitude of different paths left by other animals confused with Hazel's. After several minutes had passed with Rick's noisy footsteps echoing in the silence of the forest, he knew he was getting closer as the scent of broken pine and other growth became fresher, and the sound of a giggling little girl pierced his ears. Daryl looked back at Rick, thinking that maybe he was imagining it, but he found the man looking at him like he was trying to authenticate what he was hearing, too.

Daryl turned away and bounded into through the trees, staggering into a clearing. Sure enough, Hazel sat there, her hands cupped around something Daryl couldn't see through the cage of her fingers. She was beaming at him proudly. Daryl just slumped his shoulders, feeling lost as he stared at her.

"What've ya got there?" Rick asked weakly, coming to stand behind him.

She opened her hands wide so as to show them, and a beautiful monarch butterfly flew out of her hands, seeming affronted as it fluttered away. Hazel watched it go with a pout. "Mister Butterfly," she whined in dismay.

In a flurry of movement, Daryl had her scooped up in her arms, tucking his face in her hair, now tangled with leaves and twigs. He held her close to him, her weight reassuring in his arms.

"Darry?" she asked, innocent confusion taking over as she used her nickname for him. And, instead of scolding her for using the pet name, he just held her tighter.

"Thank Christ you're safe," he whispered. He did exactly what he'd have wanted from his mother or even when he came in and staggered through that back door. Rick stayed at a distance, though he no doubt wanted to embrace his little sister and scold her for running off.

"I was jus' chasin' a butterfly," she said, her voice bemused. She wasn't used to Daryl initiating contact like this. Usually, she was the one to climb up into his lap. "I wanted ta show you and Ricky."

Daryl laughed, and it was a bit of a watery sound. "S'pretty butterfly, sweetie," he told her. "Now I got somethin' ta show you."

He balanced her weight in one arm and reached into his jacket, curling his fingers around the rose he had for her. Daryl suddenly felt stupid and unsure, but he steeled his nerves and pulled out the flower, holding it out to the little girl.

"What is it?" she asked in wonderment, wrapping her tiny hands around the dark green stem.

"S'a Cherokee rose," he told her.

"What's it mean?"

"Long story," he said quickly. Now that they'd found her, he didn't want to relay the sad story of the flower. "I'll tell you sometime, 'kay?"

She pouted but nodded reluctantly, resting her head on his shoulder. Rick approached then, arms stretched out for his kid sister. Daryl handed her over, hiding his reluctance to let her go with a little smile. His friend hugged her close, resting his cheek on the top of her head.

"Don't do that to us again, Hazel," he said, his voice strained. "You scared the life outta me."

"And me," Daryl chimed in roughly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"'m sorry, Ricky," Hazel responded, but she held up the flower for her big brother to see. "But Darry gave me a flower."

"Yes, he did," Rick responded, raising his head to look at Daryl over his little sister's head. The Dixon rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment, eyes flitting away from Rick's.

"You ain't gonna tell Mama, right?" Hazel suddenly whispered, drawing everyone's eyes back to her.

Rick looked at Daryl, then, who shook his head with a smile. Rick's own lips spread into a grin of his own, and he kissed the top of Hazel's head. "Nah, but you'd best behave."

"I will," she responded. She looked back and forth between them. "Can we go get ice cream now?"

Rick let out a disbelieving little laugh, but its inflection was softened by his smile. "Yeah, honey. We can. I sure could use some sugar after that." He took a deep breath, giving his sister a look of frustrated adoration.

Daryl hovered a little closer, and Rick seemed to sense Daryl's need for comfort, even though he didn't know why. He gave him a curious little look, and then opened one arm. There was no expectation in the movement, nothing in his eyes that made him feel compelled to come forward. It was just an offer, and it was entirely of Daryl's own accord that he shuffled forward and sank into Rick's embrace, wrapping one arm around the man's back and the other joining Rick's around his little sister. Maybe Rick didn't know why Daryl was so frazzled, that Daryl hadn't had this happy ending when he'd gotten lost in the woods for more than a week on his own. But Daryl found that he didn't care as much about that, now. Not when he knew that, if he were to go missing again, there _was _someone who would care enough to know he was gone.

* * *

Daryl scrunched his face up in mock distaste when Hazel reached up and kissed his cheek, hands fisted in his tee-shirt.

"Bye-bye, Darry," she said sadly, looping her arms around his neck and hanging there. He lifted an awkward hand to pat her back. Even after seven months of knowing this little girl, he wasn't quite sure how to interact with her. Especially because she was so adorably touchy-feely.

"Bye, brat," he replied softly. "You take good care'a your mama for me, okay?"

"Mhmm," she responded, sniffling.

He pulled her away from him, looking closely at the tears pooling in her eyes. "Aw, c'mon. You gonna do this every time I have ta go home?"

Hazel smiled and wiped her eyes, nodding furiously. Daryl gave an exasperated sigh, tugging her closer to him again. "I'll see ya soon, 'kay? I'll go with yer stupid brother ta pick you up from school tomorrow."

"Really?" Hazel turned hopeful eyes to him.

Daryl swallowed. It was something he'd been wanting to do, but he didn't want to go back to that place. He'd gone to that school once, covered in bruises Merle'd told him to never explain. He didn't want to think about how he had been in that building when his father had scarred him, all the times he was absent for a week at a time because of the beatings, which were a hell of a lot worse back then. But if going there could put a smile like that on Hazel's face. . . His resolve crumbled as he stared at her.

"I'll be there," Daryl promised, hugging her once more before looking to Rick. His friend got the message and pulled Hazel into his lap so that he was free to get out of the car and leave.

"Bye," he said lamely, glancing to the side before his eyes locked with Rick's. There was a curious emotion there, something Daryl couldn't identify.

"See you Monday, Daryl," Rick replied simply, offering him a little smile that _just _showed his pretty white teeth beneath pink lips.

Daryl hummed in agreement and opened the car door but hesitated. Then he reached over to hit Rick's arm gently with the back of his hand, an amicable gesture he'd seen Merle do with his friends. Though Merle was rougher, he figured the sentiment was still there. He realized he hadn't been as gentle as he'd thought when Rick rubbed his arm, a little smile pulling up one side of his mouth. Without looking at the man again, he stepped out into the balmy twilight air, shutting the door behind him.

It wasn't dark, so Rick knew that he couldn't drop Daryl off in front of his house. It wasn't really a problem anymore, since it was spring. Anyway, he wanted to be away from his house as long as possible. Merle was either home, high and drunk, or he'd left again. He didn't want to face the frustration at the first or the abandonment at the latter, so walking home was all right by him.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and fished his cigarettes out of his pocket, sliding one out and lighting it. A long drag from the damned thing had him effectively calmed, but it was more of a precaution. Usually hanging out with Rick was enough to keep him decently happy, no matter what his home life threw at him. But it was a nice evening, and he felt like living up the chances he had to smoke outside. Despite being a smoker, he didn't like the scent of the things hanging around in his house any more than it had to. His dad only filled the living room and kitchen with the smell. Daryl's room was mostly free of it, and he liked it that way.

The sun's light bled across the sky, and the newly green trees seemed to be on fire as their glossy leaves reflected its rays. He admired the sight quietly, his step slow and wavering, waggling his cigarette between his lips as he sucked in more of the noxious smoke. Daryl stamped the thing out on his porch and kicked it off to join the other butts littering the ground.

"Merle?" he said cautiously as he walked into the house, subconsciously holding his jacket closer to himself. "You in here?"

There was no response, and Daryl tried to shrug off the hurt that Merle didn't even wait for him to come home. Anyway, he'd chosen to hang out with Rick over his brother. There was no reason for him to stay here, in the house he hated. He headed toward his room, taking off his jacket in the process and folding it over his arm. The sunlight leaking in from the windows in the living room stained the hallway red, cast eerie shadows over the stained walls.

He found the door to his room ajar, and he furrowed his brow. Merle'd never left his door open like that, not with their old man around. Maybe Daryl storming out had pissed him off enough to purposely forget. Daryl shrugged. Merle'd already been high before he'd left; it wouldn't be that strange for closing his bedroom door to slip his mind.

Just barely reassured, he stepped into his room, freezing at the crackle of paper under his feet. Daryl looked down to find one of Rick's notes underfoot. He followed a trail of some sort with his eyes, and there, a few feet away, was the little box he'd kept them in. It'd once held money that Daryl'd saved up, but nowadays, he had no change to spare, and it became a place for him to keep the notes Rick would give him. Like when he was working long shifts and couldn't hang out with Daryl for a week or two. Glenn would go and visit him at the police station, and, the next day, he'd have little notes from Rick to give him in pre-calc. It was always done with a knowing little smile shared with Maggie, and Daryl had given up on wondering what he was missing.

But now those notes failed to send happiness running through him, didn't force him to hide a shy little smile. No, as he stared at them, he felt a thrill of trepidation run down his spine, terror at the implications of what he was seeing running through him. And, even as he felt his father's presence behind him, he couldn't make himself turn around fast enough to avoid being grabbed at the back of his neck and forced against the wall.

He could feel his father's breath at his ear, the strong scent of alcohol stinging his nose. He shuddered. "So, son," the man slurred, thinly veiled anger in his voice. Daryl knew that this quiet rage was more dangerous than anything else. "Y'wanna tell me who the fuck Rick Grimes is?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **Good news: your abundance of beautiful reviews and feedback had me dying to get another chapter up (also, I'm an arrogant little shit who likes to hear lots of nice things about what she's writing before she can get the next chapter started). Bad news: this is the last of the chapters I already had written. Now, you'll have to wait a week or sometimes (I try my best) more for an update. For that, I'm sorry. But at least the ending of this chapter isn't as much of a cliffhanger as the other one. I really hope you guys all like it, and I hope it isn't a disappoint to all the suspense I built at the end of last chapter.

I'm gonna make another special mention to **K Lynn Perks**, who I just realized (belatedly, I'm sorry) has been reviewing since the inception of this fic on this site. Thank you very, very much for your continued support, dear! You have no idea how wonderful it is to read your beautiful feedback.

Also, **Mayeri**, I absolutely _adore _long reviews; you have no idea. Continue to write them, please!

Anyway, this is the ninth chapter. It has some heavy shit (not as heavy as what's to come, but I digress). Just. . . I've been told it's extremely emotional, so keep that in mind before you dive in to read it.

* * *

"You're late, man," Shane commented when Rick climbed into the driver's seat of his patrol car.

"I had to take Hazel home," Rick responded distractedly. "We were at the park."

He didn't mention that 'we' also included Daryl Dixon. Although he'd be the first person to tell Shane exactly where to shove his dislike of Daryl, he didn't think purposely inciting his friend was a good idea. They'd agreed to not talk about him, and that was how they were still friends. Still, he _wanted_ to be able to talk about the boy who'd become his best friend in the course of the last six months. Then again, that same boy _had _essentially replaced Shane in Rick's life, so maybe he really couldn't blame him. He sighed. Maybe it was time to finally clear the air between them.

"Y'all have a good time?" Shane asked, sitting back in his seat.

"Yeah," Rick replied and started the car so they could begin their patrol. He drove out of the lot of the station's parking lot, heading toward the far end of town. "She got lost in the woods, though." Talking about Daryl helping Hazel might warm the man's perception of him.

Shane looked at him, concern in the furrow of his brow. "You weren't watchin' her?"

Rick bristled a little at the blame in his voice. "I just took my eyes off'a her for a second. . . She was chasin' a butterfly." Rick smiled helplessly, forgetting his irritation, and Shane couldn't help but join him. Like Daryl, he had a soft spot for Rick's kid sister. Or maybe that was just the case with everyone. He shrugged.

"A butterfly," his friend echoed, shaking his head. "How'd you end up findin' her? You ain't a woodsman."

"I had some help," Rick responded uneasily, eyes fixed on the road.

"Who from?"

"Daryl Dixon." There it was. He said it.

To his credit, Shane didn't react with the explosive fit of rage Rick was expecting. He just bit into his nail, stared out his window before turning back to Rick. But his posture was rigid, and Rick knew him too well to think he wasn't pissed. "He's hangin' out with Hazel, now?"

Rick met his gaze evenly, resisting the urge to curl his lip at the disapproval in his tone, before turning his eyes back to the road. "Is there a reason he shouldn't?" he asked, and Shane huffed in irritation, like the answer was obvious.

"He's a Dixon, Rick. Maybe he ain't bad now, but he will be. Just look at his brother, or his old man."

"Look, Shane, he ain't his brother. He's a good kid. He loves Hazel, and Hazel loves him. I'm tellin' ya, my ma's almost called Daryl instead'a me ta watch her when she was at work. He's a good person, Shane. I don't know why you can't see that."

In fact, he did know, and he'd told Daryl the reason for it himself. Still, it didn't make him feel any better about the fact that his friend was a judgmental asshole.

Rick pulled to a stop at the corner of street, thinking it was a good place to keep an eye out for trouble or respond to a radioed message needing their help. He stared out at the gentle wilderness, and Rick found himself thinking of Daryl, of the flower he had given Hazel. He recalled the image of her clutching the beautiful bloom to her chest as she ran back up the drive to Rick's childhood home. He thought about the careful directions Daryl had given his kid sister about keeping the rose alive for as long as possible, how Hazel seemed to drink up every word like the boy was speaking gospel.

He looked at Shane, then, holding his curious, frustrated gaze. "He's one of the best people I've ever met," Rick said softly. Even when he and Shane were at odds, he was speaking his mind in front of the guy. Old habits die hard, he supposed.

A strange look came over Shane's face, morphing from jealousy into sudden, somewhat horrified realization. "You like him, don't you?" he all but whispered. His mouth was hanging open slightly.

"Of course I do," Rick responded. "That's what I've been tryin' ta tell—"

"I don't mean like that," Shane interrupted, dark brown eyes bored into his, appearing almost black in the shadows of dying twilight.

Rick averted his eyes, playing absently with the holster of his gun. He was fully aware of how his eyes lingered on the Dixon too long, focused on his pink lips, his flyaway blonde hair, his sparkling blue eyes framed by long, golden eyelashes. So what if he found himself wanting to press his lips against the birthmark just above the left corner of his lips? Those were his thoughts, and he sure as hell never thought that Shane would pick up on them. He was more than happy to remain just friends with Daryl, because he knew exactly just how flighty he was. A stupid little crush was not a good enough reason to risk losing Daryl. But, that stupid little crush _was _there, and Shane had somehow picked up on it.

So, he settled to simply say, "Oh."

Shane looked taken aback, and Rick couldn't blame him. He probably expected embarrassment, or denial. But Rick chose to stare at him stonily, wondering what was okay to say around his friend. He shook his head. The only time he had to watch what he said around Daryl was when it concerned his family, and Rick got that. Not everything was for other people to hear; there were things about his father he didn't want to talk about, either. Mostly because the hurt of losing him was still raw, but he thought that it was still basically the same thing.

Before either of them could say anything more, their radio crackled in, and the voice of a dispatcher filled the car. They instantly quieted themselves, listening intently for the anticipating report.

"Respond to 55 Water Street, signal 22, possible 10-35."

"That's us; we're closest," Shane muttered, waiting for Rick to relay that they would be reporting to the scene, as was usually his job.

But Rick was rigid in his seat, staring blankly, mind only just registering that Shane's eyes were burning into him. The words of his friend got lost as they picked their way through the voice's words on the radio echoing around in his head. Eventually, it narrowed down to just the residence repeating like one of his broken records, and Rick tried and failed to swallow down the sudden dryness in his throat, vanquish the sudden sweat pooling in the center of his palms.

Because that was Daryl's address.

Shane gave up on waiting for him, picking up the radio and pushing down the transmit button to give it time to connect. "Paul 103 to DIS," he said slowly and clearly into the microphone, releasing the button, eyes not leaving Rick.

"Go ahead, Paul 103," the voice responded after a second.

"Reporting to 55 Water Street for signal 22, possible 10-35."

This way, the other units nearby would know that the incident was covered, that they didn't need to swarm to report to the address. But Rick felt that they should, because that was _Daryl's _house. Knowing the implications, his heart jumped up into his throat, and, _fuck,_ he couldn't breathe. Maybe it wasn't Daryl's address, maybe he'd heard wrong. He could feel his heart's erratic beat in his ears, behind his eyes, in his mouth, and he felt like he was choking—

"Rick!" Shane's voice cut through his panic, and Rick looked to him with a stricken expression, eyes glazed. There was concern behind the determination on Shane's features, and he knew that his friend was fully aware of what it all meant—the signal, the _code_—and taking control. He was a cop, and proud of it. This was what he was trained to do. It _was _Daryl's address, and he hadn't heard wrong.

Rick dutifully started the car, pulling out of their parking space at a ridiculously fast speed that he'd have never even dreamed of hitting. Shane hurriedly reached down to turn on their siren and lights, just so that incoming traffic would have a chance to avoid Rick and his frenzied warpath. He cast worried looks in Rick's direction every few seconds, but Rick paid him no attention. The last thing on his mind was whether or not his friend thought he was emotionally stable. As he raced down the roads leading to Daryl's house, his brow furrowed, he thought about how he had _just _been heading this way at eight o'clock this morning to pick Daryl up for their adventure at the park. He didn't know how things could change so drastically in less than twelve hours. He didn't know how he could go from having Daryl, safe and whole and smiling next to him, to _this, _traveling toward his house with sirens wailing and red and blue lights flashing.

Some part of his logical mind was still intact when he approached Daryl's street, and he reached down to turn off the siren and the lights, slowing the patrol car to a more moderate speed. Daryl had always been so insistent on inconspicuousness when Rick came to pick him up, and something told him that, even now, that carefulness applied here, too. He didn't know why, but he'd learned over time to go with his gut instinct. Maybe it was because he was trying to make up for the guilt of not realizing that _something _had to be up for Daryl to be afraid of being seen with a damn friend, for God's sake. He shook the thought away. He had other things to be worrying about than his own damned conscience.

He took the left onto Daryl's street and pulled in front of the rundown shack Daryl called home. He left Shane to turn off the engine before he pushed the car door open and all but tumbled out of the seat, hitting the ground at a sprint. Rick didn't waste time banging on the door or demanding to be let in; he tried the handle, and he was shocked and relieved to find that it wasn't locked. Taking only a tiny breath to calm himself, he pushed his way inside the darkened house, letting the fading sunlight spill into the house, barely having the presence of mind to identify himself as the police.

The entire room was wrecked. Rick's eyes traveled over the clutter of the main room anxiously, searching for anything that would reveal Daryl's whereabouts. He found nothing, and his mind calmed enough to let him take in the full extent of the damage done to the room. The ragged armchair was on its side, a cluster of magazines and newspapers strewn next to it. Beer cans littered the floor, and glass from what he suspected were the remains of a bottle of moonshine joined them. Rick's eyes followed the mess, trying to imagine what could have put it there. He froze when his eyes caught sight of a blood red flash, the rest of the room seeming to go dark.

A knife, discarded and bloody lay on the floor of the kitchen, a thin trail of the red liquid tracing where it'd skid after being thrown. Little smears and puddles of blood led from the tiny kitchen to the hallway, and he felt his panic hollow out to pure, all-consuming terror as he stared at it. It was like he was removed from his body as his feet led him closer, fingers hovering over where the stuff was smeared against the wall, and he hardly noticed when Shane came up behind him quietly. The sharp metallic tang assaulting his nose made him want to vomit, but there was a small, rational part of his brain that told him that this was not the time for him to lose his stomach.

"What the hell . . . ?" Shane whispered, and Rick ignored him to follow the trail of blood down the hallway. His friend clenched his jaw and moved over to the phone, undoubtedly to call for an ambulance, and Rick couldn't make out his words over the blood rushing in his ears. He still felt like he was watching himself from afar, and maybe it was just his way of keeping him from giving into the hysteria he could feel dancing at the bottom of his stomach. His formless consciousness hovered as he watched his body proceed down the hallway, Shane following him after finishing his call. Rick found himself abruptly jolted back into his mind as he halted at the doorway where the path of blood ended, staring hard at the splotches of blood forming an imprint of a hand on the chipped paint of the doorframe.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he steeled himself and stepped into the room, and his frazzled mind quickly dismissed it as being empty. His boots squelched in the largest volume of blood he'd seen yet, and he jerked backward, air whistling harshly through his nose. But it wasn't the blood on the ground he flinched back from; no, it was from the paper scattered all over the ground, paper he recognized. Paper he'd used to write the owner of this room silly little notes when he wasn't able to hang out with him because of their conflicting schedules. Paper he'd used to convince Daryl that he missed him and cared about him, knowing that the Dixon was inclined to believe that no one would ever feel those things for him.

More were spilling out from the remnants of a smashed box, and he leaned down to take the note closest to him in his trembling hands, trying to ignore how the almost-black blood stained one of its corners. As he numbly unfolded the paper, Shane stepped farther into the room, investigating it more thoroughly than Rick had. Rick ignored his presence and turned his eyes to the words on the paper. Stricken, he noticed that the creases in the paper were worn and fragile; Daryl had clearly opened this note more than once.

_Daryl, _he read, even his own neat handwriting becoming hard to read through the tears in his eyes. _I miss you, man. Work's been killing me lately, but believe me when I say I'd rather be hanging out with you. I swear to God, with all the work they're having me do, I'll be a deputy sheriff by the time I'm twenty. Then again, the higher my rank is, the less I have to do, and that means more time to myself (which includes you, by the way). Anyway, I think I can get some time off this weekend. Do you want to go out to dinner? I have a present for you. Tell Glenn yes or no. Don't worry, he doesn't know what the question is. ;) Rick. _

"Rick. . ."

He looked up from the note, trying to piece together what it all _meant,_ to locate Shane. Rick found him leaning over something, and everything seemed to stop when he caught sight of painfully familiar construction boots, just visible behind Shane's leg. Rick rushed to his side immediately, the note slipping from his fingers as he did so, already forgotten.

And even though he'd already known from the minute he saw his boots, he hadn't allowed his mind to register the fact that it was _Daryl_ lying unconscious on his bedroom floor.

And thank Christ for those boots, because the only way he'd have been able to identify him would be by his blonde hair, and even that was nearly stained entirely black by blood. His face was a bloody, bruised, and swollen mess, blood trickling from one side of his mouth. As Rick looked up and down his body, he saw purple and blue and black mottling the skin of his arms, circling his neck like someone had tried to throttle him. And, if the wheezing breaths just barely escaping the parted lips were any indication, that was what exactly had happened. Both of his eyes were surrounded by shiny and puffy skin, and one of them he could tell would be entirely swollen shut. Blood dripped down from his nose and onto his lips, and Rick let himself feel a little relief that it didn't seem to be broken.

But then Rick wasn't focused on any of that. Not when he realized that the blood staining Daryl's shirt was not from his battered face, that the blotches were spreading from the center of his stomach. Carefully, Rick moved to tug the shirt up, hands surprisingly steady. There, on Daryl's abdomen, was an assortment of deep slashes, where they ended and began hardly discernable from the blood smeared on the surrounding skin. Rick stared in repressed horror at the new wounds and the old, badly healed scars.

"Shane, call an ambulance," Rick said in a monotone, tearing his eyes away from Daryl's stomach and leaning forward to check his pulse. It was all he _could _do after seeing something like that, to keep from losing his fucking mind.

"I already did, man."

Rick blinked. That was right; he'd _seen _Shane go over to the phone. "Then go and meet them and bring them here." His voice broke a bit on the last word, and he swallowed thickly.

For once, Shane didn't argue, just bowed his head before standing up and leaving the room. Rick pressed his fingertips to Daryl's neck. His pulse was weaker than he'd have liked, but it was steady, and the tension seeped out of the cop, leaving him feeling even shakier than before. Rick let his forehead rest against Daryl's, the only place he hadn't seen bashed up on the boy. He sucked in a deep, stuttering breath, tears pricking at his eyes, before drawing back and taking a more complete look at Daryl's body. He could just see the edge of darkened skin underneath Daryl's shirt, and he pulled the fabric up carefully, avoiding the cuts in his skin with both his hands and his eyes. Rick's breath caught in his throat when he saw the purely _black_ bruises blooming over Daryl's ribs, and he didn't need to do any further investigating to know that they were broken. There was a gash open along the line of Daryl's left eyebrow, and Rick knew that a man's fist had put it there from his response training at the academy.

He was shocked at how much time he must have spent staring at Daryl when he felt himself getting tugged away from the body on the ground by Shane and the paramedics, lying broken and discarded like one of his old toys. No, that wasn't right, because he wouldn't have even treated a damn _toy _the way someone had obviously treated Daryl. He felt the hysteria start to hit him as they lifted Daryl up off the ground, the blonde's head lolling backwards, and it was too close to the image of him being dead for Rick to bear. His breaths were entering and leaving him too fast, and his entire face was starting to tingle from the lack of oxygen. Rick ignored Shane when he tried to comfort him and shush him. Instead, he tried to follow Daryl as they loaded his gurney into the back of the ambulance, but one of them pushed him back with a barring arm across his chest.

"Who are ya ta him?" a paramedic asked when Rick kept trying to push by him, eyes still fixed on Daryl and _only _Daryl.

"I'm his friend," he said numbly. "I'm his friend."

The paramedic exchanged a look with Shane before he nodded, stepping aside to let Rick into the ambulance. Rick dazedly took the seat next to Daryl, eyes trained in a dead stare on his face, searching for any movement. He gave into the urge to take Daryl's hand, holding the bruised and potentially sprained limb with care. It was everything to just feel that warm skin on his, even though it felt limp and weak and just _not_ how Daryl was supposed to be. He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the velvety, still-soft skin of the back of Daryl's hand.

After a few moments of his rendition of some sort of vigil, Daryl moaned in pain and confusion, fingers twitching in his own.

"Daryl?" Rick croaked out, raising his free hand to wipe away the tears that had pooled underneath his eyes. His voice was choked with emotion, but he didn't try to clear it.

An eye cracked open, and he was sure he wasn't imagining it when he saw the panic and fear in its depths. It was replaced by recognition—maybe a private reassurance, too—within seconds. "Rick?" The word mostly came out as air, but Rick heard it clear as day. He could also hear the agony in it. "Where'm I?" He let out a whimper when the ambulance was jostled on its way to the hospital. Rick shushed him.

"You're in an ambulance," Rick whispered, and he was all too aware of another paramedic watching them quietly from her corner. "They're gonna patch ya up."

"S'good. Feel like shit." His words were slurred, and Rick was beginning to think that he might have a concussion, what with his pupil blown wide in his one visible eye.

Rick laughed, but it was a watery sound, maybe even a sob. "You're gonna be okay."

Rick was silent, just alternating between petting Daryl's hand comfortingly and wiping away his stubborn tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, the wetness captured in his eyelashes cold against his cheeks. He sat like that for a moment, hands clasped around Daryl's and brow furrowed like he was in the middle of some kind of prayer. He could list a thousand things he'd be praying for, and Daryl was in every single one of them.

Finally, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was scarcely audible, eyes half-lidded as he opened them just enough to look at Daryl.

But Daryl was already unconscious, his breaths nothing but pained, ragged gasps echoing in the silence of the ambulance. Rick lifted his hand up to his lips and kissed it, giving into the urge and ignoring the woman in the corner. His question wasn't important—he knew now, and he was going to make damn sure that the motherfucker who did this to Daryl would never lay eyes on him again.

* * *

Daryl couldn't see, but he could feel. And _fuck, _he wished he couldn't. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that _everything_ hurt. Deep down, under his skin, burning pain everywhere on him and inside him and maybe even around him. He couldn't tell, not when every sense, every nerve was alight with agony.

There were fingers poking and prodding at him, and Daryl hissed, snarling at them. He meant for obscenities to fall out of his mouth, but it sounded like jumbled gibberish even in his own ears. Daryl jerked away when the probing digits touched his side. Even the gentle contact sent fire racing through him. Couldn't they fucking tell that his ribs were splintered without jabbing their damn fingers into him? He might as well have had broken glass filling up his chest, and the strain of fighting whoever wouldn't get their damn hands off of him wasn't helping matters. His head began to feel light when he couldn't get a full breath around the pain in his ribs, and, suddenly, phantom hands were around his throat, cutting off his air completely.

"He's having a panic attack," a voice whispered, and Daryl's ears automatically tried to catch what was being said. Seemed like he could hear, too, even though the pounding in his head was only worsened by his inability to breathe.

"Daryl?"

Daryl tried to turn his face toward the voice, because he _knew _it. It was something familiar, something grounding in the nothingness all around him. He tried to put a name to the voice, but he could only summon a mental image of smiling, almost-red lips and ice-blue eyes and curly, dark brown hair.

"Daryl? Can you hear me? It's Rick, Daryl. You need to breathe."

Rick. That was it. The name managed to break through the cloud in his mind, and the vision in one of his eyes was suddenly clear. A face hovered above him, and Daryl took in the concerned crease of his brow. If his arm didn't feel so damn heavy, he'd have reached up and smoothed it out. It didn't belong there, marring that beautiful, soft-looking skin. But he just stared up at Rick, thinking that maybe the torment of being poked and prodded at would end now that he was there. He felt the pressure around his throat disappear as his eyes took in Rick's fucking _beautiful_ face, and he greedily took in as much air as he could without the pain in his side becoming unbearable.

"Daryl, you're hurt pretty bad," Rick said after Daryl's breathing evened out, and Daryl just blinked at him. The world seemed to spin with every flutter of his eyelashes. "You need to let them help."

He scrunched up his face, about to protest. He didn't trust anyone to make him feel better—except for maybe Rick. He opened his mouth to tell him so, but the only thing that escaped him was a groan of pain when the movement sent agony spiking through his head.

"Can't ya get him some painkillers or somethin'?" Rick asked, turning away from him, his voice garbled and concerned in Daryl's ears. He yearned to see the blue of his eyes. The room was too white without them. He whined, trying to get Rick to look at him again.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm here," Rick said, turning and smiling down at him. It was forced, and Daryl knew it was his fault. He hated that even a fake fucking smile put him at ease. Daryl forced back a sob. He was so fucking useless. He couldn't be hurt without hurting someone else, too. A different, angrier voice echoed in his ears, saying something similar, and he cringed.

He heard a door close, and he realized he was alone with Rick. The voice in his head disappeared when he focused on the man's face. "Hurts," Daryl let himself whimper, squeezing his eye shut. He could feel tears accumulating there, but he couldn't wipe them away.

"I know." Rick's voice sounded strangled, and Daryl's eye cracked open again. He flinched at the raw pain he saw on the man's face before Rick smoothed it over, gave him that forced smile again. "They're gonna get ya somethin' for it. Can ya hold on till then?"

Daryl nodded, sniffling. He could do that, so long as he had Rick's eyes to keep him here. The blank nothingness from before was even more terrifying than the pain. He didn't want to lose himself again, and the man hovering above him seemed to be the only person who could keep that from happening.

The door opened again, and Daryl cringed at the even brighter light that seeped in from beyond it. It sent another flare of hurt through his head. To her credit, the nurse shut the door quickly, and Daryl relaxed infinitesimally.

"This is gonna pinch a little, honey," she said to him, and her voice was far too shrill in his ears. He missed the rich, rolling tones of Rick's voice.

Compared to the other pain he was feeling, the little prick he felt in the crook of his arm was nothing. Daryl waited patiently for it to take effect, believing it only because Rick told him it was going to help the pain. He distracted himself by staring at the man, who chose to hover nearby, his hand at his brow as he looked furtively at Daryl from the corner of his eye. Almost instantly, he felt warmth bleed into him, dissolving the pain as whatever the nurse'd given him made its course through his body. He felt the heaviness of his body leave him, and, even better, his mind stopped its disturbed circuits around topics he just didn't want to think about. The white light of the room faded to a more tolerable, soft glow, and Rick's face shimmered in front of him.

"Better?" Rick asked, taking Daryl's hand in his own. Even though his mind produced the image of an angry hand reaching out to grab him, Daryl didn't flinch away. The contact sent warm little thrills of pleasure run through him, and he did his best to squeeze Rick's fingers with his limbs as rubbery as they were.

Daryl nodded in a belated response to Rick's question. His eyelids felt too heavy all of a sudden, and he had to fight to keep them open. And he did fight, because he wasn't quite willing to lose the image of Rick's face, even if it meant he could sink into the embrace of the soft, black wave threatening to swallow him up.

Rick seemed to know he was fighting sleep, because he reached down to smooth down Daryl's hair, matted with blood. This time, Daryl couldn't help but stiffen under his hand, and Rick drew back, an unbearable pain on his features. "Y'can go ta sleep." Then, seeming to read his mind, he said, "I'll be here when ya wake up."

"Promise?" Daryl asked, blinking furiously to fight sleep. He knew the sound was muffled and distorted, and he wasn't entirely sure that Rick had understood.

But, apparently, he had, because he nodded. "I promise."

Daryl looked back at him, searching for any sign of deceit. Finding none, he nodded, mostly to himself, letting his eyes close. There was a center of heat where Rick's hand was around his, and it was still sending warm tingles throughout his body. It set his body vibrating pleasantly, and as long as he didn't breathe too deeply, he was entirely free of pain. Eventually, the call of sleep was too adamant to ignore, and he let himself enjoy the feeling of Rick's warm palm against his own until he finally lost consciousness.

* * *

Daryl was lucid the next time he woke up, and the first thing that he noticed was that there was someone nearby, sitting next to him. He couldn't see who it was; the eye on that side was swollen shut. Daryl tensed up, breath hitching, fear flooding him. His eyelashes fluttered in apprehension; at this point, he was ready for whatever the world had to throw at him. Having his father beat him to death would be heaven, honestly, compared to this pain.

But then, he was suddenly aware of warmth encasing his hand. It took his mind a minute to realize that someone was holding it, and he blinked. His father'd never do anything like that; Merle sure as hell wouldn't. Whoever it was, it sure as hell wasn't either of them, and Daryl was relieved. The fingers curled around his own twitched, and Daryl instinctively grabbed at them in case they tried to leave, even though it sent pain racing up his arm. He bit back a moan.

"Hey, there," a voice said, and then its face came into view. _Rick. _He should've known. The man'd promised to be there when he woke up, after all.

"Hey," Daryl responded, his voice rasping. He remembered the cries and grunts and shouts he just couldn't keep from ripping out of his throat under his father's fists, and he squeezed his eye shut at the panic that filled his stomach at the memory.

"How's the pain, from one to ten?" Rick asked, and Daryl opened his eye again.

_Ten, _he wanted to say, but he didn't want to make Rick worry. "Maybe a seven or eight," he said, cracking a little smile. It was probably more than a grimace than anything, but he was trying.

Rick's fingers tightened around his own, and he reached over with his free hand to push a button connected to a little tube. Daryl's good eye followed the line of it to where an IV was jabbed into the skin of his arm, covered by medical-looking tape. His eyes slid shut when he felt that same warmth from before spread through him, and it was only intensified now that his head wasn't spinning nauseatingly.

"Man," Daryl mumbled. "Merle should'a just gotten himself laid up in the hospital. S'much better than weed, this shit."

Rick just laughed. "You really wanna be sayin' these things in front'a me? I _am _a cop, y'know."

Daryl cracked an eye open. "I was talkin' 'bout Merle, not me. But don't go 'round pretendin' ya'd rat me out."

Rick sighed, smiling sheepishly, and Daryl joined him. "You're right. I wouldn't." Daryl was just experimenting with how much movement would hurt his bruised face when Rick expression suddenly got serious. "Daryl, we need ta talk about what happened."

Daryl just appraised him blankly, not reacting to his words in the slightest. Rick looked tired, his usually clean-shaven face shadowed by the beginnings of a beard. He was still in uniform, and Daryl got the feeling that he really _hadn't _left his side. "How long I been out?" Daryl asked.

"'round thirty-six hours," Rick replied, furrowing his brow at the random subject change. In response to Daryl's blank look of shock, he said, "Ya got a concussion." The memory of smashing his head on the kitchen counter when his father had forced him down to the ground hit him, and the dulled pain in the back of his skull intensified. Well, at least it explained why his brain seemed to be surrounded by cotton wool that he just couldn't expel.

"You been here the whole time?"

Rick nodded, rubbing at his eyes, and gestured to a cot next to Daryl's hospital bed. He was just noticing now how tired the man looked, and the glaring, fluorescent lights of the hospital room weren't all that flattering, either. Still, Rick looked beautiful to him. He felt a thrill of pleasure run through him despite everything, because he could say—well, think—that now.

"They let me stay. Mostly 'cause they thought ya'd start panickin' again if you woke up and I wasn't there."

Daryl flushed, biting deeply into his lower lip. "I was real out of it, wasn't I?"

Rick nodded, face tight. "You kept callin' the doctors 'Dad'. Told 'em ta get away from you," he responded, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

Daryl swallowed. So he knew. There was no way he could try to tell him that it'd been someone else, maybe one of the jocks Daryl'd offended by kicking the shit out of their pack leader in defense of Glenn. He averted his eyes, choosing to stare instead at the brace on his arm. Looked like his old man'd sprained his wrist when he grabbed him.

"There were some of us staked out at your house, waitin' for your dad," Rick told him, and Daryl flinched infinitesimally at the mention of the man. "He came home yesterday morning. They arrested 'im."

"Daryl, ya can't go back there," Rick said when Daryl remained silent, and he continued to ignore him. "If your neighbors hadn't heard ya yellin', you could'a bled out."

"They should'a let me," Daryl muttered. "You should'a let me."

"That's crazy," Rick said firmly, but his voice was still gentle. "I care about you, Daryl. My ma cares about you. Hazel, too."

At the last mention, Daryl looked to Rick. "Hazel. . . I was supposed ta come with ya to pick her up from school," he recalled guiltily.

"S'okay, Ma took care of it. She knows what happened," Rick responded, reassuring him fractionally. "I'm gonna go over and tell her what happened later, since you're awake."

When Daryl opened his mouth to protest, Rick quickly amended, "I won't tell her any details. Ma doesn't even know any of them. Just that you're hurt and you might be in the hospital for a while." He paused. "She's probably gonna wanna come see ya, though. Same with my ma. You gonna let 'em?"

Daryl didn't want to be seen like this—broken, bruised, hardly able to move on his own. He didn't want Mrs. Grimes or Hazel to worry and cry like he was concerned they would. But he knew they cared about him, for God knew what reason. He figured they'd only be more worried if he refused to see them, so he nodded slowly. Rick gave him a little smile that told him he knew exactly what was running through his mind and he was glad that Daryl hadn't given into his insecurity.

"I'm gonna get goin'," Rick said after a few minutes of sitting there with Daryl chewing at his lips. "Rest up, you hear?"

"Yeah, yeah," Daryl responded. "When can I get outta here?"

"Maybe a day or two, since you ain't got any broken bones, and your ribs are only fractured. You're still a minor, but I can sign ya out," Rick said. "I already got it cleared with a judge I know for you ta stay with me till we got this all sorted out."

"'Sorted out?'" Daryl asked, dreading the answer.

Rick didn't beat around the bush this time. "Daryl, your father beat the shit out of you, and, from the way you're actin', this ain't the first time."

Daryl cringed, but he rose his one eye to glare at Rick. "Listen, sunshine. I been dealin' with this for almost seventeen years now. I don't need no one's help—least of all yours."

Rick returned his glare just as vehemently, but Daryl could see the hurt flickering in his eyes. "If that were true, ya wouldn't be lyin' here right now!"

"Get the fuck outta here, Grimes," Daryl hissed, turning his face away pointedly.

"Daryl, that's not what—"

"Go on!" The effort of raising his voice sent pain ripping through his ribs in spite of the painkillers pumping through his veins. "I don't want ya here."

He heard Rick hesitate for a moment before he turned on his heel and stormed out of the hospital room, and he could hear the sound of his boots against the floor fading. Daryl felt his rage seep out of him, leaving him feeling sick and dizzy in its wake. He flexed his arm, twisted his torso, just to get some kind of pain that would distract him from how fucking guilty he felt, having Rick leave him so angrily. But the morphine was strong, and he couldn't feel anything but a bit of uncomfortable pressure in his side. Hissing angrily, he reached over and ripped the IV out of his arm, automatically holding his hand over the site to prevent any bleeding. He didn't need their painkillers; he didn't need anything from anyone. It was about time people started realizing that—especially himself.

* * *

Rick felt the irritation at his friend flood out of him the minute he left the hospital room. He understood where Daryl was coming from; that boy had no reason to trust _anyone, _least of all people he'd never even met. It still stung that Daryl didn't want his help, though, after how close they'd gotten. And the fact that he had to find out what was going on at home with Daryl like _this _made Rick wonder if he knew Daryl as well as he'd thought.

He left the hospital at a brisk pace, but he realized that he didn't have a ride. Shane had taken their car when he'd gone into the ambulance with Daryl. Rick hissed in frustration. Just his fucking luck.

When Rick went back into the hospital, he saw the receptionist look up at him like he was a madman. He shrugged and scratched at the rugged beard setting in, figuring it was well deserved.

"Can I use your phone?" Rick asked, trying to smile.

The receptionist returned it, but her eyes still spoke of alarm at his appearance. She place it on the counter so that it was within Rick's reach. He pulled it over and dialed the number quickly, pressing the receiver to his ear.

"Hullo?"

Rick sagged in relief when Shane's voice came through over the receiver. He'd been reasonably certain that he would be home, but his mind was still all over the place from everything that had happened in the last two days. "Hey, Shane."

"Oh, God, Rick. It's good to hear from you, man," Shane said. "How is he?"

Rick cocked an eyebrow at the concern in his voice. "He's pretty beat up, but he's gonna be okay, thank God," he replied.

Shane swore under his breath, but it was more of a relieved sound. "Jesus Christ, Rick, if I'd known. . ."

Rick shushed him. Maybe he could have told Shane that it didn't excuse him being a total douchebag to Daryl in the past, but his friend just sounded so damn _guilty. _Nearly as guilty as Rick himself felt, he thought. "I didn't know either. You helped me get him outta there, Shane. God knows I was in no state ta take care of it. You don't have ta say anything."

His friend hesitated, like he was trying to decide whether or not he should go on despite Rick's assurances. But he just sighed and asked, "What'd ya need?"

"I need a ride to my house. You took our car last night."

"Right," Shane said at the reminder. "I'll be there in five or ten minutes, 'kay?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Rick waited till the line went dead to hang up the receiver, giving the receptionist a look to let her know that he was done. He gave her another more genuine smile and said thank you.

"Anytime, sweetie. We'll take good care of your friend," she said, her eyes soft with pity. It was a small hospital, and Rick assumed that hearing his limited description of Daryl over the phone had told her exactly who he was here for.

"Thank you," Rick whispered before turning away to head out of the hospital again.

He stood on the curb, Daryl's angry words from before echoing in his head. He cringed. It'd been months since Daryl had just shut him out like that. And now, when he really, _really _needed Rick, he wasn't going to let him be there. Rick knew he'd support him, anyway, but it would be god awful if Daryl fought him the whole way. What Rick couldn't work out was why he was so averse to help. He'd been living with his monster of a father for seventeen years, and, now, he just had to give a little cooperation to get away from him forever.

But then he thought of the kind of hell Daryl'd been living in. How could he trust anyone when his own father did this to him? Rick suddenly understood the full fragility of any sense of trust Daryl possessed, and how he'd lashed out at Rick just a few minutes ago should have been expected. He sighed. He wouldn't push Daryl like that again. He'd wait until he had a real solution to offer, and then he'd make his case.

Rick was tugged out of his thoughts by Shane pulling up in front of the hospital. Rick returned the wave his friend sent his way and clambered into the passenger seat, smiling tiredly at his friend. "Thanks for this, Shane."

"No problem, man. Why you goin' home?" Shane asked, seeming to sense Rick's urgency as he quickly pulled out of the parking lot and began driving towards Rick's mother's house.

"I gotta tell Hazel and my ma what happened." He took a deep breath as his mind began to ponder his kid sister's reactions. "Ma only knows he got hurt, and Hazel doesn't even know he's in the hospital."

He looked down at his wrinkled uniform, his shadowed eyes and scruffy face. Rick rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "Man, I could use a shower."

"Sure could," Shane said, wrinkling his nose painfully. Rick gave him a halfhearted smile in return.

They drove in silence for the next five minutes until Shane pulled to a stop in front of Rick's mother's pale blue house. Rick rubbed his eyes and took a moment to collect himself before opening the car door and stepping out. He leaned down again to address Shane before walking off. "Thanks, Shane. I'll keep you updated."

Shane nodded gratefully, and Rick shut the door, giving his friend a playful salute before walking up the path leading to the white door of the house. Once he stood there, he knocked on the door, listening with a fond smile when he heard the clamor of what was undoubtedly Hazel sprinting down the stairs.

"Ricky!" she shouted when she opened the door, jumping up to hug him.

Rick caught her instinctively, swinging her up into his arms. "Hey, sweetie." He looked her over with a critical eye, raising an eyebrow at the paint splattered all over her clothes and face. "What's goin' on?"

"Nothin'," she replied happily. "Mama's just helpin' me paint a pretty picture for art."

The woman in question quickly appeared at the top of the stairs, leaning over the banister to see who was at the door. "That you, Rick?"

"Yep, it's me," Rick responded, walking into the house and reaching to pull the door closed.

His mother came down the stairs quickly, and Rick swallowed at the thinly veiled worry in her eyes, knowing that he couldn't say anything with Hazel in the room. Rick tried to tell her with just his gaze that Daryl was stable at the moment, that they hadn't found anything life threatening to worry about. Right now, Daryl's refusal to help himself was the biggest problem, and they could talk about that later.

"Ricky, where were you an' Daryl yesterday?" Hazel asked abruptly, bottom lip pushed out in a pout.

Rick ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at his sister. So much for easing into what he came to tell her. "That's what I came to talk ta you about, honey. Ya think you can take a break from your picture?"

Hazel nodded, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Rick ignored that as he carried her into the living room, setting her down on the couch gently. He took the seat next to her, angling his body so that he was facing her. His kid sister automatically did the same thing, his much larger knee brushing against her own. His mother had followed them and hovered at the doorway, pressing her knuckles to her mouth as she watched them.

"Hazel, I want ya to try your best ta stay calm, okay?" he began, lifting her face up so he could look into her eyes. "Ya think you can do that for me?"

Hazel nodded, setting her jaw in determination. Rick took strength from it, inhaling deeply before attempting to continue. "Daryl's hurt, sweetheart. He couldn't come pick you up 'cause he's in the hospital."

A look of horror came over her face, and Rick prepared to launch into an explanation. While he wasn't about to lay the heavy information of Daryl's abusive father on his kid sister, he already had an alternative story planned out to tell her.

"Was it the scary monster? The one in his house?" Hazel whispered before he could even open his mouth, tears welling up in her eyes.

Rick sat straight as if shocked, story dying on his tongue. He looked from his mother to Hazel, seeking any kind of answer. There was just no way Hazel could know about Daryl's father. For God's sake, Rick hadn't known until two days ago, and he considered himself to be Daryl's best friend. His mother just looked back at him with an equally stunned expression before they both fixed their gazes on the little girl sitting beside Rick.

"Did he say anything like that ta you?" Rick asked urgently, putting his hands on his sister's tiny shoulders.

Hazel shook her head, and he could hear her gulp back her tears. She raised one of her tiny hands to wipe away the wetness building up behind her eyelids. "He won't ever tell anyone, but he's scared'a his house, Ricky. I think there's a monster there. Lots worse than the one that was under my bed. S'why he never wants to go home."

Rick felt moisture well up in his eyes, and he sniffled, trying to force them back. He put a hand to his brow, attempting to get his mind around how fucking blind he'd been. Tears, hot and slick against his cheeks, crawled down his face, and he didn't even try to wipe them away.

"Ricky, why're ya cryin'? Ricky?"

He just pulled his sister close and hugged her, and she didn't fight him, despite how confused she was. "Remember when I made that monster under your bed go away?" Rick asked her, his voice thick with tears.

"Uh-huh," Hazel said. "You chased him away real good."

Pressing his face into her paint splattered hair, he told her, "Well, I'm gonna do the same thing with the monster in Daryl's house. I'm gonna make sure it knows it's messin' with the wrong people."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **So sorry for the late update, guys. I'm very, very sorry. A lot of stuff happened alongside the writer's block of the century, and I just couldn't get myself into the mode for writing this fic. I finally finished the chapter and polished it up, though, and I hope you guys aren't too angry with me to review. 3

I'm just going to give a shout out this time to all of you. You're all so lovely, and the amount of reviews I get every chapter has increased exponentially. You make it a joy to write for the Rickyl fandom, and I love all of you.

This chapter has its emotional moments (it's really kind of sick psychologically, honestly), so just keep that in mind. I don't know how sensitive you guys are to this kind of stuff, but semi-explicit mentions of child abuse are here, plus a bit of a slur. I can't say much else, because it'll kinda ruin the chapter, but keep that in mind. Happy reading!

* * *

"Rick, you gotta talk to him," Susanne said sternly, folding her arms across her chest.

Rick stopped his pacing down the hospital's hallway to turn and glare at her. Her heart clenched at the creases between his brows, the dark shadows under his eyes. Her boy hadn't slept a wink since Daryl'd gotten hurt. "He threw a tray at my head last time I tried ta go in there, Ma. He doesn't wanna see me."

"Believe me, honey. He wants ta talk to ya. He's just scared."

"Well, accordin' ta him, he 'ain't afraid of nothin'," Rick said in frustration, rubbing at his eyes. "Even if I go in there and he doesn't try ta throw somethin' at me, he ain't gonna talk. And I can't force him." He swallowed thickly, running a hand through his hair. "I won't force him."

His mother cocked her eyebrow at him. "D'ya think he'll let me talk to him?" she asked, tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair sitting outside Daryl's hospital room.

Rick shrugged helplessly. "He said he would before we fought, and he's been fine with lettin' Hazel in with him. I'm the one he's pissed at, not you."

Susanne reached out to grab her son's hand, forcing him to look at her. Taking a look at the tears she could see building in his eyes, she stood and hugged him tight around the middle. "He isn't pissed at you, sweetie. He's just. . . He's been through a lot. Ya know that, don't you? It's got nothin' ta do with you."

Sniffling, Rick nodded, averting his eyes. Susanne knew that he didn't want her to see him cry, and it just served to break her heart even further. She put both hands on the sides of his face and pulled him down to kiss his forehead. "I'm gonna try an' talk to 'im, all right?" She repeated herself when he still refused to meet her eyes. "All right?"

He looked up at her and nodded again. "Thanks, Mama," he said, closing his eyes.

"Don't thank me till he's talkin' to ya again," she said, cracking a little smile.

Patting her son's cheek, she went over to the hospital room door, knocking on it gently. "Daryl, sweetie, it's Susanne. Can I come in?" And, despite her apparent confidence when talking with son, she held her breath as she waited for an answer. Because, honestly, she wouldn't blame Daryl if he never wanted to talk to anyone again. All she could really hope was that he wasn't too far gone to hear what she had to say.

* * *

When Daryl heard a knock at his door, he braced himself to yell at Rick to go the fuck away for what must've been the tenth time today. Before he had the chance, a softly feminine voice sounded from just beyond the door, muffled by the wood of it. "Daryl, sweetie, it's Susanne. Can I come in?"

He'd known that Rick's mother had been waiting out there, but she hadn't tried to come in yet. Only Rick and Hazel had attempted it, and his kid sister was the only one he let in. She was the only one who didn't want to fucking talk about anything important. Daryl was more than happy to hear about her school day and look at the pictures she'd drawn in the art segment of her first grade year. As long as he didn't have to talk about his father or why the fuck he was laid up in this goddamn hospital, he was happy.

Daryl was considering just putting up with all the bullshit that would go along with talking to Rick again. He wanted to get the hell out of here, and he couldn't do that until Rick agreed to sign him out. But there was no way that he could just go back home like he wanted; a damned judge had cleared for him to stay with Rick, and that was where he was going to have to go once he was out. He figured it'd be easier to yell at the hospital staff to get the fuck away from him when they tried to help him undress and wash than Rick. Sure, he'd spent a hell of a lot of time hollering at the guy these past two days, but it didn't mean he enjoyed it. It was the exact opposite, actually. He felt sick with guilt every single time Rick fled his presence—especially because he knew the cop would be back for more of his bullshit no matter what he said.

Bringing his attention back to the woman outside his room, he bit his thumbnail nervously, flinching at the pain it brought on in his sprained wrist. Fuck. His father really had gone too far this time.

As much as he wanted to tell the woman to go the fuck away, this was Rick's _mother. _The woman who cooked him a hot meal every weekend and trusted him to babysit her daughter with Rick when she was at work. He didn't think he could raise his voice to her if he fucking tried.

"Come in," he said, just loud enough so she'd be able to hear.

The door cracked open, and Mrs. Grimes came in, her face somber. He smiled a little at that. He wasn't interested in placating smiles and concerned inquiries about how he was feeling when they both knew the answer: like utter shit.

"May I?" she asked, gesturing to the chair placed right next to his hospital bed.

"Ain't taken," he responded gruffly, shrugging his shoulders. He regretted it instantly, though, when it sent a flare of pain through his ribs. He internally recoiled at the thought that they'd be troubling him like this for another month and a half.

She gave him a tiny, amused smile and took the seat, clasping her hands in front of her. He was glad that she looked like her usual self—not tired and rugged like Rick. Her curly red hair was shiny and kempt, her clothes ironed and neat. At least he wasn't entirely fucking up another person's life. Looking at Rick and seeing what everything that had happened to him did to the guy just served as another fucking reminder that people were better off without him. Even though he wasn't stupid enough to believe that Mrs. Grimes wasn't worried about him, he childishly let himself take comfort in the fact that she didn't show it.

"Well, what d'ya want?" he asked when she remained silent, choosing to watch him with her clear blue eyes. It'd never bothered him so much before that they were the exact same color as Rick's.

"I wanted to say that I'm sorry," Mrs. Grimes told him, shutting her eyes briefly.

"What for?"

Blue eyes opened again, and Daryl was relieved that there were no tears in them. "I gotta tell you somethin', Daryl. Somethin' I should'a talked to you about long time ago. Probably from the minute ya walked into my house for the first time. See, 'cause I knew what was goin' on."

Daryl just watched her, not revealing how shocked he felt. She swallowed and continued. "You had a black eye, some story about fallin' and hittin' your head. And when you broke that plate. . . Daryl, sweetie, you were terrified of Rick, like ya thought he was gonna hurt you 'cause of it. And I know my son's the gentlest soul you're ever gonna meet. There's no way he would'a given ya reason ta think that."

He swallowed. He should have known that Rick's family thought he was a freak, even if they had the courtesy to say nothing. Daryl suddenly felt hot and itchy with shame, and he wanted to disappear into the hospital bed beneath him, just get away from what Rick's mother was confessing. But there was nowhere to go, and Mrs. Grimes was still talking. "My point is, I knew it had ta be someone else. And I'm sorry. Because I knew someone was hurtin' you, but I didn't say anything. I didn't think ya'd want our help, that you'd push us away. I thought that havin' you come over and makin' ya soup would be enough." She laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. It made Daryl's chest constrict painfully. "But I didn't know it was this bad, Daryl. I was so stupid, and I'm so sorry."

Daryl just stared at her in shock, eyes wide, tears prickling at them. He hardly noticed when they spilled over his eyelids and down his cheeks. Nose clogged, he breathed through his mouth shallowly, still minding his ribs. Mrs. Grimes' eyes were glittering with tears, and she sniffled, rubbing at the moisture collecting there.

He didn't know how to comfort her; he'd never learned how. Dixons never showed how they felt about anything, much less comforted other people when they did. Daryl was used to being humiliated for his tears, and it'd been a long time since he learned to cry behind closed doors. He even blamed it on the assortment of different meds he was on that he crying now.

"Rick even asked me why you were the way you were, and I didn't tell him—still haven't told him. If he knew that I'd known, you wanna know how he'd react?" She peered at him with her unnerving, Rick-blue eyes.

Daryl just shrugged again, too captivated by the woman's words to be concerned by the twinge of hurt in his side.

"He'd blame himself. He'd blame himself for not seein' it. He wouldn't be angry at me, even though he has every reason ta be. That's just the kind'a person Rick is, and he gets it from his old man."

Her voice broke as she spoke of her deceased husband, and Daryl raised his good hand to wipe at the tears on his face when they started to chafe his skin. It was really just an excuse to break eye contact with the woman at his bedside, and he felt fractionally better when he raised his eyes to look at her again.

"Now, I have no reason to expect you to do anything for me, Daryl. I've done you wrong, and I can never make up for that," Mrs. Grimes continued, having successfully regained her composure. Daryl opened his mouth to tell her that she had absolutely nothing to be sorry for, maybe a little late, but she continued on before he could say anything. "But I'm beggin' you to let us help you. Ta let Rick help you."

"I don't need no one's help—or your pity, neither," Daryl muttered, shifting his eyes away angrily. He should have known that this was what she was getting at. Seemed like everyone was a manipulative fuck who wanted to get him to do whatever they wanted. He was fooling himself thinking otherwise. He was sick of being other people's problem.

Mrs. Grimes' voice was firm when she responded. "It ain't pity, Daryl. I don't care what your father told you." Daryl flinched and looked up at that, shocked and angry. Everyone seemed so concerned about how his father kicked the shit out of him; they never paid any mind about the things he _said. _And honestly, he was glad they didn't. He wasn't exactly proud of the fact that his father despised him and wasn't afraid to tell him, and it was one thing he especially did not want to talk about. "You may not believe it, but Rick, Hazel, and me? We care 'bout you. I know for a fact that Hazel loves ya like a brother, and you're like a son to me. Now, it comes down to who you're gonna believe: us, or him."

Daryl wanted to believe her; he really did. But after living with his father and even Merle for nearly seventeen years, it just wasn't as simple as she made it sound. He couldn't wrap his mind around the idea that he wasn't completely worthless, because he'd been hearing the exact opposite every single fucking day he could remember.

Mrs. Grimes sighed, dragging him out of his introspection. "If ya won't do it for yourself, do it for us."

And that was it. Maybe he thought that he didn't deserve anything better than what he'd been getting. Maybe the Grimes family was wasting their breath giving him the time of day. But they'd all been here these past few days. He'd ignored Mrs. Grimes completely, and Rick. . . Daryl swallowed down the guilt at how awful he'd been to him. He couldn't deal with that right now. He was tired and hurting and he felt sick with anger and remorse.

"Sleep on it," Mrs. Grimes said, getting to her feet.

Daryl watched her turn to leave before hesitating, looking back at him again. She reached out her hand to touch his hair, which had finally been cleaned of the blood clotted in it, gently, thumb pressing down the messy, flyaway strands. He closed his eyes at the contact, pointedly ignoring how tears sprang into his eyes again. He jumped at the feeling of lips pressed against the top of his head, and, when he heard the door open and close behind her, he felt a resounding sense of emptiness. Daryl hissed in irritation and gave into the nagging desire for sleep, just so he wouldn't have to feel.

* * *

Rick stared at the closed hospital room door for what could have been five minutes or hours. He was reasonably sure it was the former, but the way time seemed to be slipping away from him recently still left a bit of doubt. His mother had left a long time ago, and she'd told him that Daryl would ask for him when he was ready. So far, he'd heard nothing, and the thought that Daryl would _never _want to see him again was becoming more and more present in his mind. Rick got to his feet and started pacing again; he was far too restless to sit still.

The sadness and the frustration and hopelessness started to choke him again as he walked, and he tried unsuccessfully to swallow. Rick prided himself in being a patient, tolerant man, but this was just something else entirely. This was _Daryl. _Just a few feet away from him, lying broken and scared and alone. And he couldn't do anything for it, because he'd pushed him too far and Daryl'd shoved him away. Rick cursed his own stupidity. Daryl hadn't been allowed to be up and lucid for two minutes before Rick sprang that shit on him. He was a cop, trained to deal with these kinds of situations, and yet, he hadn't treated Daryl like the trauma victim he was. He'd seen firsthand what Daryl had been through from the bruises on his face to the slashes on his stomach. Summoning the image of the deep canyons carved into Daryl's skin, he swallowed thickly. He hadn't let himself think about them or, _god, _the knife, had to leave the room when they cut away his soiled shirt to get a better look at his ribs.

Inexplicably exhausted, Rick collapsed into a chair, head cradled in his palm as he tried to coax it into quitting its heavy pounding. He was hungry, didn't know the last time he'd had anything other than coffee. The anxiety was enough to kill his appetite, and that was only aggravated by the amount of caffeine he was taking in. But it'd gotten to the point where he couldn't mask it anymore, and his stomach was growling up quite the complaint. For the millionth time that day, Rick got to his feet, casting an anxious look at the stubbornly closed door of Daryl's hospital room. He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach about leaving him, but the hunger accompanying it was enough to keep him walking down the hallway toward the café. With one more glance over his shoulder, he rounded the corner and, for the first time in three days, made himself forget his anxiety for the boy lying hurt in a hospital bed because he'd been too damn blind.

* * *

_He's in the forest. He can feel the soft grass and moss beneath his back, and he thinks it might be more comfortable than his thin, lumpy mattress. There's sunlight streaming down from the trees, and he can feel each individual beam where it dapples his face. A white haze hovers above him, shimmers and twinkles at waves at him, and he blinks at it contentedly. Birdsong echoes in his ears, and he thinks it's a more beautiful soundtrack than any of the metal shit his brother likes to listen to. _

_ Daryl knows this place, but he doesn't know how. It's like a distant memory, dancing just out of reach, and he's too tired, too warm and languid to want to worry about it. Every time his mind gets close to an answer, his thoughts skitter away like startled birds, and he, as a hunter, knows the futility of trying to capture them. So he decides to lie there and enjoy the warmth of summer on his face. Daryl's learned long ago what a gift the heat really was when the sun was his main provider of it. He lets his eyes shut, lets the relative silence of the clearing and the shine of the sun lay itself over him in the best kind of blanket. _

_ The peaceful quiet is shattered when someone crashes into the clearing, snapping branches and stepping on wild blossoms under their feet. Alarmed, Daryl sits up, eyes flying open and traveling around the clearing to find the culprit. He feels a finger of terror trail down his spine when he sees him. It's his father, eyes bloodshot and drunken, and he's got someone around the neck under his arm, struggling and crying and begging. There's a dead rabbit hanging from the man's other fist, and the boy is leaning away from it in horror. Daryl's eyes widen when he recognizes him, suddenly realizes what this place is and why he knows it. _

_ "Daddy, stop," the boy wails, and Daryl cringes at how the shrill cries echo around the clearing, like they're surrounded by stone walls instead of trees. "I'm sorry."_

_ "Yer gonna learn how to skin a kill one way or another, boy," the man slurs. "Ya gotta eat somehow, don't ya? Aren't ya always complainin' how you're hungry? Ain't Merle always gettin' caught stealin' food for ya? That why he ain't home?" He shakes the boy, elicits a tiny whimper from him. "Well?"_

_ "I'm sorry," the child blubbers again, gasping as he tries to breathe around the constricting arm around his throat. "I'm sorry."_

_ "Shut yer fuckin' mouth," his father hisses, and Daryl's heart clenches painfully when the boy _does_, has to hold his breath to keep from crying. "You gonna skin this rabbit, boy?" _

_ The kid nods, takes out his knife from a loop in his belt. It's too big in his hands, he can hardly get his fingers wrapped around the handle. He finally pulls himself free from his father's now-lax grip, kneels in front of the rabbit dropped carelessly on the ground before him. The tip of the blade hovers over the bloody fur of its stomach, shaking as the hand that held it does. He sees the boy's tears drop into the fur, and Daryl wants to take the knife away from him and destroy it, at least hide it somewhere where no one would ever find it. But he can't move, even though he knows what's coming next. He knows where this story's going to end up, and, just like when it happened, he can't do anything to stop it. _

_ Daryl's cry is swallowed up by the silence of the forest when his father rips the boy to his feet by his arm. He stumbles and almost falls, but the man's bruising grip around his arm is enough to hold him upright. His father shakes him again for good measure, takes the knife away from his flaccid grip. _

_ "You li'l fuckin' pussy," the man growls, bringing his face close to the boy's. He cringes back, and Daryl can _feel _the stale breath on his face. "I'll teach ya how to skin a damn rabbit."_

_ But he doesn't go after the rabbit. Daryl doesn't know why he'd expected that he would. Maybe it's more hoping than anything, but he knows that it's done nothing when he backhands the boy across his face, pins him down where he's fallen. The kid's rigid with terror as he stares at his father, begs and pleads and tries to get through the haze of alcohol in his mind. Daryl knows that he's scared, that Daddy's never gone this far, and he remembers everything he'd screamed had fallen on drunkenly deaf ears. The man tugs the boy's tattered shirt up, reveals a stomach and chest where every single rib is visible. He holds the knife up over the skin, watches as it depresses underneath the blade. The boy's not even breathing, because even the tiniest inhalation would bring his flesh closer to the knife. _

_ It's only when the skin parts underneath the blade and blood starts to flow that Daryl's shout leaves his throat. It's strangled and it's terrified and it does absolutely nothing. His father continues to slice into the skin already scarred by his belt, and the helplessness of the situation reinforces itself, just like it had when he was the one pinned under those drunkenly shaking hands. Daryl shuts his eyes and sinks to the ground, pulling his knees close to his chest and covering his ears to drown out the high-pitched screams of the boy—of _him.

* * *

Daryl's eyes flew open, the thud of his heart beating, _pounding, _echoing throughout his entire body. It was in his ears and his throat and under his skin, and he hardly had enough awareness to realize that he couldn't breathe. He was thankful for the blindingly white lights of the hospital room, because they told him that he wasn't in that forest clearing anymore, that he was miles away from that place. But he could see the clearing every single fucking time he closed his eyes, so he settled to keep them open, wide and glazed. Daryl wasn't entirely sure if that was why they were watering. He wasn't really sure of anything right now, and fuck if he didn't know a panic attack when he felt one.

It brought him back six months ago, when he was sick and had nightmares all throughout the night. Hell, it brought him back three days ago, right after he'd had the shit beaten out of him worse than ever and the only person who could get him to stop hyperventilating like he was right now was Rick.

_Rick. _

Where the fuck was he? Daryl was pissed that he wasn't here _now, _when he needed him most. The son of a bitch had been around near constantly for the past seven months, and now that he really fucking needed him, he was nowhere to be found. His rage spiraled in on itself into self-loathing when he remembered that it was his own damn fault, that Rick wasn't here because Daryl wouldn't talk to him just for being a damn good friend. How the fuck could he justify saying that he didn't need anyone when he couldn't breathe normally on his own? It was pathetic, and it didn't take a damn rocket scientist to see it.

Daryl stared at the closed door, but he instantly regretted it. It only served to make him feel more trapped, increased the pressure on his lungs that kept him from breathing. If he was going to get through this, he had to open that damn door, and it looked like he was the only one who could do it. A small corner of his mind was thankful that he refused to get hooked up to an IV again after ripping the first one out as he pushed his blankets and sheets down to his knees. Just the small movement sent agony flaring through his ribs, and he couldn't remember the last time he had taken his morphine. Daryl gritted his teeth and ignored it, began to try to edge his legs off of the bed. He couldn't breathe, and the pain in his side was just making his head spin, but, eventually, his toes touched the freezing ground of the hospital room. Well, he thought it was freezing. Everything that wasn't boiling would probably feel cold to him, because the very air he was breathing felt like it was searing his lungs.

Fuck, no. This was bad. The room was tilting sideways, and he couldn't feel the reassuring mattress of his hospital bed underneath him anymore. His panic hit him full force again as he fell through empty space, eyes shut, bringing him back to that goddamn clearing again. Maybe he should've been grateful for the absolute agony that exploded throughout his entire body, because it brought him back to where he was, but that didn't keep him from moaning out because of it.

Daryl had enough presence of mind to know that he'd fallen, hopefully just jarred his ribs instead of worsened the fractures. He knew that there was no way in hell he was getting to that damned door now, and he cursed himself for being such a fuckup, breaths sobbing and rasping as they entered and escaped his throat far too fast. His entire body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat from exertion and pain, and he curled in on himself to try to vanquish it, to take his eyes off the damn _door _that was still making anxiety flutter in his stomach.

But then it burst open, and the breeze it sent over Daryl was like a goddamn godsend, because he suddenly didn't feel like he was going to disappear into the heat consuming his body.

"Daryl?" a voice asked, and Daryl peered up from his sweat-sodden bangs. He hardly had time to appreciate that _Rick _was standing in the doorway before the man was on his knees beside him, concerned face just above his. "What the hell did you do?"

"Needed some air," Daryl said, and he really was trying to be funny, just to get that look off of Rick's face. But his voice was strangled and breathy and weak, and the concerned furrow in Rick's brow only deepened.

"Jesus Christ, Daryl. C'mon, we gotta get you back in bed." Rick's hands were shaking a little bit as he leaned over Daryl, unsure what to do. "Do you have a death wish or somethin'?"

Daryl cringed at how broken Rick's voice sounded, and he knew the man wasn't just referencing how he'd fallen out of his bed. Rick just sighed and slid his arms behind his back and underneath his legs, lifting him up as gently as possible, and he remembered the first time he had done this, when Daryl was sick and haunted with his nightmares. Daryl hissed when it jostled his ribs, and Rick apologized softly. He set Daryl down on the hospital bed before reaching down to push Daryl's sweat-sodden hair out of his eyes. When he didn't flinch, Rick's hand hesitated on his head before dropping awkwardly into his lap.

"Daryl," Rick started. "I'm so sorry for leavin' you. I had to eat, and I. . ." He trailed off, rubbing at his eyes tiredly.

Daryl glared up at him, but Rick already looked so defeated. But he just really couldn't believe what he was hearing. "When was the last time you ate somethin'?"

His friend paused for a moment, and the fact that Rick couldn't answer him right away told Daryl enough. "Don't say you're sorry for somethin' like that, Rick. Especially when I'm the reason you've been damn near starvin' yourself."

"That's not—"

"Save it for someone who's buyin' it," Daryl said, and Rick gave him a halfhearted smile.

"Fine," he said, sitting back more comfortably into his chair. "There a reason you're lettin' me stay in here?"

"Yeah." Rick just watched him, waited patiently for him to continue. "I wanted ta tell you that I've been a real douchebag. And. . ." He swallowed. He didn't know how to say this, but he had to. "Thank you."

Because Rick had saved him. No matter what he'd told himself, there was no way that he could've just woken up, albeit sore and bloody, and picked up the shattered pieces of himself that his father scattered every time he raised his fist and voice to Daryl. Even if he had managed to clean himself up, bind his ribs and wrist, stitch up the slices in his stomach, there was no way his father would tolerate him in his house again. Not after what he'd found out. He would've killed him.

That was the part that still confused Daryl. He still didn't know why he hadn't just killed him. His old man knew how to kill in a variety of ways; an animal wasn't all that different from a human in that respect. Maybe the memories he had of jail made him hesitate. Or maybe he thought that Daryl _was _dead—or he would be when he came home from wherever the fuck he'd run off to after Daryl'd blacked out. Who the fuck knew.

"What're ya thankin' me for?" Rick asked, snagging Daryl away from his thoughts. He heard the surprise in Rick's voice, and Daryl wanted to kick himself for how much of an ungrateful ass he'd been.

"Like I said, I've been a real douchebag," Daryl repeated, wringing his hands nervously.

"You were mad at me. I get it."

He shook his head. "That's bullshit." Rick looked up, brow furrowed as he tried to work out what Daryl was saying. "Sure, I was mad—but not at you. I wasn't used ta anyone givin' a shit, Rick. I still ain't." He took a fortifying breath. "But I'm not fool enough ta believe that I can handle this on my own anymore."

Son of a bitch. This would be a hell of a lot easier if he could just say, _Fine, I'll let you help me as long as you get me the fuck out of here. _But he knew that Rick deserved a hell of a lot more than his stupid, prideful bullshit. He deserved to hear what Daryl was really thinking, even though, knowing Rick, he might've already worked it out. There _was _something in Rick's eyes when he braved looking up, but Daryl knew that the man was also waiting for him to continue.

"I just. . . I figured. . ." He swallowed again, clenched his teeth before finally forcing the words out. "I guess if anyone has ta help me, I'd rather it be you."

He winced. Daryl was making it sound like Rick was his last resort—but he wasn't. He was his _only _resort, because no one had ever been what Rick was in his life. Not even Merle, because, in the end, he couldn't do anything for Daryl, either. He was too busy fighting off his own demons, and Daryl got that. Tried, and maybe didn't succeed, to keep from holding it against him.

But there was something like understanding Rick's eyes. He got to his feet and started toward the door, and Daryl felt panic flush through him. Had he misread him? Had Rick finally decided he was done with all of his bullshit?

"Where you goin'?" Daryl asked, and it was whinier than he'd have liked. Still, he didn't see how it could be helped with _this _man potentially turning his back on him. Whether he'd get down on his knees and beg for him to stay or to tell him not to let the door hit him on the way out, he still wasn't sure, but, either way, he knew losing Rick would be a lot harder than dealing with his father.

"I'm gonna go and see if I can sign ya out," Rick said, not facing him. After a minute, he turned his face to show Daryl a little smile, the gentle one that just barely turned up his lips, the one that Daryl absolutely adored. "You should be able to come home with me tonight. That is, if ya didn't puncture a damn lung with that fall."

Daryl hid his surprise by playfully narrowing his eyes at Rick. "You wouldn't tell 'em," Daryl said, an implied threat in his voice.

Rick shrugged. "You don't know what I'd do ta keep ya safe, Daryl. You're your own worst enemy, sometimes."

Daryl swallowed and looked down. He was starting to see that the son of a bitch was right.

* * *

Daryl was finally cleared to go home with Rick two days after he decided to accept his help. Rick _had _told them about his fall, but that wasn't the reason he couldn't go back to Rick's apartment right away. They had to do checkups on his concussion, especially, and even Daryl had to cede to the fact that head injuries were nothing to fuck around with. Plus, Rick used every trick in the book to get him to stay—including setting his little sister on the kid. It was no secret that Daryl couldn't deny Hazel anything, and there were no hopes of escape with seven badly splintered ribs. But that didn't stop him from bitching the entire time. Rick was more than happy to listen to it, because hearing Daryl whine was a hell of a lot better than being ignored by him. And, he was seriously adorable when he pouted. Not that Rick would ever say that. He valued his life, after all.

It was Daryl's third night here, and Rick'd just taken him his painkillers about a half hour ago. He insisted that Daryl take his bed the first night, because the shitty little couch he had bought just to accommodate two people in his apartment was just no place for someone who had just gotten the shit beaten out of him less than a week ago. Daryl wasn't good at arguing with logic, so he'd finally given in. He wasn't happy about it, but Rick really couldn't care less. There was no way that Daryl wasn't sleeping on his bed—even after he recovered completely. But, he didn't have to worry about that for a while yet, because Daryl was still a mess. The swelling in his face had only gone down a little, and he could only just open the eye that had been completely swollen shut. His ribs would take another month and a half to fully heal, his sprained wrist and arm a few weeks. Not to mention that his concussion still had him sleeping extremely irregular hours—sometimes too little, and sometimes too much. Rick was glad all over again that he'd been granted leave from the station; he had already become practically nocturnal within these past three days, plus his constant time with Daryl in the hospital before that, just waiting for him to wake up in one of his panics. Rick wished he could just say that _that_ was because of the concussion, but something told him it would last a little longer than the predicted two weeks of recovery for his head injury. He knew trauma when he saw it, and he wasn't about to ignore it like he had when Daryl had first woken up. Still, he was looking forward to seeing the haze leave Daryl's eyes once he got better.

It was often Daryl's eyes that he imagined before going to sleep, and that was exactly what he was doing now as he stared up at the ceiling, lying on his makeshift bed. Still, he was having trouble imagining how gorgeous they were without also picturing the bruises his father had beaten into his skin. Rick was still waiting to hear back on the collection of evidence against Daryl's old man, but, to be honest, he hoped they took a while longer. He knew that Daryl was going to have to talk about what he'd been through, probably testify in front of an entire court, and Rick knew that there was more to it than what he'd seen. Daryl was too comfortable with what had happened to him—like it was good day where his father was concerned. Anyway, he didn't think Daryl could handle that right now, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to protect him from that.

And, like clockwork, a sob sounded from Rick's bedroom. It was that very reason that Rick'd started keeping the door open when he left Daryl after he spontaneously fell asleep. He wanted to get to Daryl right when his nightmares started—not when his panicked whimpers became so loud that they made it past the doors and walls Rick already wished weren't separating them.

Needless to say, Rick was on his feet and heading into the room in the space of a few seconds, peering into the room. He felt a lump in his throat when he saw that Daryl had turned the light on since Rick had left him. Though, Rick couldn't blame him for being scared of the dark.

Daryl was wrapped up in his sheets, and the angle his body formed on the bed made Rick worry for the welfare of his ribs. But it didn't seem to be bothering him as he curled in on himself, arms protecting his head, his face burrowed into the pillow as he hid from some unseen threat.

"No," Daryl whimpered softly, and then louder, "No!"

Rick nearly leapt to his bedside when Daryl began to toss and turn violently, clamping a hand down on his shoulder to still him. He lashed out at him, clouded blue eyes flying open, but Rick caught his hand before his nails could scratch across his face. It took a few moments for the terrified glaze over his irises to clear, for recognition to take its place. His arm went limp in Rick's grasp, and Rick brought it close to his face, pressing the cold and clammy skin to his lips. Daryl let out a single, short sob, and his shoulders shook silently as he tried to hide his anguish. Rick shifted onto the bed and brushed Daryl's hair out of his eyes, hand hesitating to cup his bruised cheek, always careful of the swollen skin. Daryl just blinked up at him, eyes red-rimmed. A thin sheen of sweat covered his skin, and his hair was tousled and damp. Rick could just see his lower lip, already bitten open, trembling with the countless emotions undoubtedly roiling inside him, and Rick hated himself when he could only think of one way to go about halting it.

"Okay?" Rick asked, and Daryl took a minute to nod. "Do you need anything?"

Daryl's eyes just shifted to the empty space in the bed beside him. He always made himself so small when he slept, and, even though it was queen-sized bed, he only took up a tiny corner of the bed. Rick didn't let his mind wander as to why that might be. Instead, he tried to read the signals Daryl consistently sent when he didn't know how to say something—which was even more frequent with his concussion making it hard for him to string two thoughts together.

Realization hit him hard when it finally came. "You want me ta stay?" Rick whispered, and the silence seemed to swallow his words the minute they left his lips.

Daryl took even longer this time before nodding, just once, his chin angling down fractionally. He wouldn't meet Rick's eyes, and he could hear him sniffling discreetly. Rick said nothing as he rounded to the other side of the bed and stretched himself out on it. He let his head rest on the pillow for a moment, the full gravity of what he was doing crushing down on him. He was in bed with Daryl—not like that, maybe, but calling Daryl his best friend was becoming more and more ridiculous. Especially when his mind was going to places that he'd only let himself explore when he was sure he was alone.

But now wasn't the time to concern himself with his libido. He reached a hand over to clasp around Daryl's bicep. He stiffened under his touch, but, with a bit of help from Rick, he turned over onto his back, wincing all the while as the movement jostled his ribs. Though his face was turned in Rick's direction, he still wouldn't meet Rick's eyes. Rick's hand moved over from his shoulder to grasp Daryl's chin and gently angle his face up, always conscientious of the bruises circling Daryl's neck.

"Hey," he said, smiling reassuringly before asking again, "You okay?"

Daryl was much quicker to give the affirmative this time, blinking at Rick with something like gratitude and relief in his eyes. Rick smoothed his hand over Daryl's hair again before letting it drop in the space between them, the infuriating space that Rick wished he could bridge.

But then, as he reached over to sort out the blankets tangled around Daryl's legs, every thought was driven from his mind when his eyes rested on the skin exposed by Daryl's shirt riding up his abdomen.

And here he'd thought nothing could be worse than finding that knife lying discarded on the kitchen floor or seeing those cuts carved into Daryl's stomach—but he was wrong.

Because those cuts weren't just cuts. There, on the skin torn up by countless other scars, those slashes spelled out a word that Rick hadn't been able to see with the dying sun of twilight being the only light in that godforsaken house. _Fag. _

Rick's stricken gaze rose up from the hardly healed-over wounds, and he found Daryl staring at him, unadulterated terror plain on his face. A thousand scattered pieces came into place at once in his mind, and Rick felt like he was going to throw up. He'd dropped Daryl off at the corner of his street because he didn't want his father seeing them together. He'd been called about the ripped remains of what he'd ended up identifying as _his _jean jacket. He'd seen the notes strewn about Daryl's room, all signed with his goddamn name like Daryl had some star-crossed lover across the way.

"Daryl," he whispered slowly, and, somehow, the fear in Daryl's eyes only intensified. He knew he shouldn't be asking the question trembling behind his lips, but it spilled over before he could stop himself. "Did he hurt you because of me?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay, everyone. I went back and edited this and rewrote it about three times. It was a very big moment to write, and I really wanted to do it justice. I'm still very anxious about it, so a review telling me what you thought would be lovely. Thank you so much for your patience and continued support. Enjoy!

* * *

Rick could only watch as Daryl fell apart in front of him.

Tears dripped down his cheeks, and his hands shook where he had them fisted in Rick's white sheets. He could still see the cuts on Daryl's abdomen, and the boy whimpered quietly when he caught Rick staring at them, fingers scrabbling up to tug his shirt down. He watched as Daryl tried to discreetly, frantically edge away from him, eyes seeming to dart around to everywhere that wasn't Rick. But he was damn close to falling clear off the bed, just like he had back at the hospital, and Rick instinctively reached out to snatch Daryl's wrist, keeping him from tumbling over the side of the mattress. Rick's heart clenched when he flinched violently, and it took everything to keep his fingers firmly curled around his thin wrist.

Daryl was shaking even harder now that Rick had grabbed him, eyes squeezed shut. "I'm s-sorry," he stammered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . ." His apologies tapered off into incoherent blubbering, and Daryl was breathing too fast, chest hitching painfully with each shallow breath. Rick only stared at him, fingers still tight around his wrist, and he couldn't understand what he was sorry for. Rick watched the boy in front of him in stricken silence, trying to fathom the terrified stream of _I'm sorry's _escaping his lips. He felt like he was almost there, almost to an answer, and he thought that maybe it wasn't as simple as Daryl's father jumping to conclusions about Rick. He just wouldn't be apologizing for something like that.

Something dawned on Rick, then, and he felt sick all over again. Daryl's terror, his apologies had unwittingly told Rick that it went deeper than Daryl's old man being a bigoted, presumptuous asshole. That the accusations his father sent his way had been true, and _that _was why he carved the slur into his stomach. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but he felt even guiltier. But it wasn't time to be worrying about this—to be selfish—because he didn't think Daryl was even breathing through his sobbing and crying and shaking.

"Breathe, Daryl," Rick said slowly, and he wasn't sure if Daryl heard him through his panic. "You gotta breathe. I'm not gonna hurt you, I promise." Daryl said nothing, but the way he held himself so perfectly still at the sound of his voice told Rick that he'd gotten through to him. He wanted to let him go, but he just didn't trust that Daryl wasn't going to try and run again.

Daryl looked like he was just too scared to fight his touch, anyway, and, while Rick knew that that was more of a bad thing, he could work with it. He stared at Rick, his lower lip trembling just slightly, chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing. And, as his breath hitched in his chest, Rick realized that he was doing it not because he was calming down, but because he was fucking afraid of what would happen if he didn't. If Rick thought he hadn't known the answer to his question that had started all this before, and he knew that part of him had, he sure as hell did now.

"I'm gonna let you go now, okay?" Rick told him, and he leaned down to try to catch Daryl's gaze. But his eyes were shadowed by his blonde fringe. "Okay?"

Hesitantly, Daryl nodded, and Rick breathed a small sigh of relief. He let go of Daryl's wrist, and the limb fell limply to the mattress, twitching a bit where it lay. He could still hear Daryl's quick gasps echoing unnaturally in the room, and Rick was terrified he was going to pass out. But his breaths were beginning to even out now that Rick had let him go. Rick thought that he could hear the muffled drip of his tears falling onto the sheets, though he was almost sure he was imagining it.

They sat there for what felt like hours, Daryl on his knees, head bowed, fingers curled in the sheets like he was in some kind of prayer. Like he was begging for mercy. And Rick sat with his back balanced against his headboard, body angled just slightly toward Daryl, watching him carefully from the corner of his eye. He could see Daryl's shoulders shaking with silent sobs, see his teeth biting into his lower lip to still its quiver. Rick's heart was close to disintegrating in despair when it didn't stop, didn't _change_, for what must've been fifteen minutes. Daryl was just sitting there, like he'd accepted whatever was coming to him, his entire body instinctively leaning away from Rick.

"Daryl." He whispered the name softly, but it seemed too loud in the silence of the room, and Daryl cringed as if he'd yelled.

Rick was unsure as he crawled over to kneel in front of Daryl, and he didn't miss how he was suddenly _still, _how his hitching sobs quieted, how his shoulders ceased their trembling at his proximity. He didn't know if this was the right thing to do, but _fuck, _he was fresh out of options. So he leaned closer and put his arms around Daryl's hunched shoulders, squeezing his eyes shut as he hoped—Jesus, fucking _prayed_—he wouldn't regret it.

He was about to pull away as Daryl remained stiff and shaking in his embrace, already wracking his brain for another way to handle this, when the tension seeped out of the boy's body, leaving him lax and weak in Rick's arms. His cheek came down to rest on Rick's shoulder, and he could feel the weight, the exhaustion, the long-suppressed terror behind it as he melded himself into Rick. He could feel the accruing, slick wetness of Daryl's tears on the skin of his shoulder, his gasping breaths and his lips against the sensitive skin of his throat. He shuddered and held Daryl closer, because, Jesus, he would shoulder all of Daryl's suffering if it meant Daryl didn't have to.

One of Rick's hands rose to rest in Daryl's hair, and he threaded his fingers through the longer strands at the back of his neck gently, shushing him all the while. He didn't know when he started rocking him back and forth, but it seemed to be doing _something _as Daryl's arms went up to tentatively wrap around Rick's torso. His grip tightened then, and Daryl was clinging to him, his body flush against Rick's.

"I'm sorry," Rick murmured, because it just seemed like the right thing to say.

Daryl gave a short sob against his neck, fingers digging into Rick's back as he gripped him tighter. Rick just continued to stroke his hair, and he wasn't sure when he lost the battle with his tears and they started trickling down his face, but he figured it'd been stupid to even try and stop them in the first place. He thought that the only time he'd felt this heartbroken was in the first few weeks after his dad died, when crying had become the new norm for him.

"Why?" Daryl suddenly croaked out, not moving from where he lay pressed against Rick, and he didn't think it was a reply to his apology.

"Why, what?" Rick asked automatically, because the relief that Daryl was actually talking kept him from even thinking about what he could mean.

When Daryl didn't elaborate, Rick was forced to begin answering his own question. He kept petting Daryl's hair gently, rubbing his back just slightly because, even now, his body was still shaking against Rick's. His mind went in circles as he tried to think of what Daryl meant, and he was about to admit defeat and ask again when it suddenly hit him. He didn't know the details—and maybe he didn't want to—of what Daryl's father had done to him, but he did know that it was because of what Rick himself had just found out. What Daryl felt for him went beyond friendship. Except, unlike Rick, Daryl didn't know that it was mutual, that Rick had hoped and dreamed of finding this out. But not like this. Christ, not like this. He didn't want to think about how Daryl's father had been so disgusted by Daryl, by Rick, that he'd beaten him, left him for dead, and carved into his skin a label Rick hoped beyond hope wouldn't scar. And Daryl had expected the same reaction from Rick, and how he could've imagined anything different was still a mystery to him. Maybe he just didn't want to think that Daryl thought he was capable of hurting him.

"What he did. . ." Rick started, and he knew that he was at a loss for how to say this. It went a lot further than refusing to waste words like most people assumed. Rick didn't know how to use them half the time, least of all to communicate. And the way Daryl stiffened in his arms again at the mention of his father just served to make the lump already in his throat larger. "Daryl, there ain't a thing in this world that could make me hurt you like that. Not a thing. I don't care what you are, who you are, or who you think you are. I care about you, Daryl. No matter what."

Daryl drew back from Rick's embrace, fingers clutching at his sides. His eyes, swimming with tears, peered into Rick's, and Rick gave him a tiny nod, face somber. Daryl looked so lost, blue eyes fighting valiantly to shine out from the dark bruises his father had punched into him. The cut above his eyebrow seemed to set his face into a perpetually sad expression. Then again, his brows were already furrowed with confusion, hurt, and—Rick realized painfully—plain disbelief. Daryl's tongue flicked out to lick at his split lip, which Rick just noticed had started bleeding again from Daryl's incessant biting. Rick's eyes followed the movement, and he sucked in a shaky breath.

"Rick," Daryl whispered, and his eyes were so wide, begging to understand, for Rick to _make_ him understand.

And Rick wanted to tell him. But he didn't have the words, didn't know how to explain to Daryl just how much he meant to him. And Rick could see it between them, hovering just above their locked gazes, just out of reach. Rick's eyes flickered down to Daryl's slightly parted lips again, blood, blood that had no place marring Daryl's face, unchecked as it welled up from the gash in the soft-looking skin. Rick leaned closer to Daryl, and he could feel the boy's breath on his lips, hot and panting. He could see the uncertainty in the shadowed blue depths of his eyes. He didn't want to think about the amount of self-loathing that was involved if Daryl still hadn't put the pieces together with Rick's face mere centimeters from his. Rick steeled himself, hands abandoning their idle pause at the back of Daryl's neck and spine to cup his face between them. Daryl was breathing more heavily now, unsure and hesitant, and Rick could see the shiver of his lips as each ragged breath escaped him. The tension was cutting, cutting and jagged and seemingly unbreakable in the tiny space between them. Looking once more at Daryl's mouth, Rick only hesitated for a second before he leaned in and pressed his lips to Daryl's.

Daryl was perfectly still under him—frozen. It wasn't like when Rick hugged him; he didn't melt into the kiss. His breathing was harsh through his nose, and Rick could feel the vibration of little hitching sobs in the back of his throat through their connected lips. Daryl's hands moved around Rick's sides to dig into his chest, short nails biting into Rick's skin. Rick broke the kiss, breathing deeply, leaning forward to let his forehead rest against Daryl's. His body was buzzing and bordering on boneless, because Daryl's lips were every bit as soft as he'd imagined them to be, even as stiff and unmoving as they'd been against his. He stroked his thumbs gently over Daryl's prominent cheekbones, and the pads of them were slick from the tears pooling in the creases underneath his eyes. Rick's hands slipped down from Daryl's face to rest on his shoulders, and he bowed his head, breaking his contact with Daryl's forehead. He breathed heavily through his nose, tried to collect himself.

"What're ya doin'?" Daryl asked, his voice tickling Rick's ear.

"What d'ya mean?" Rick questioned, lifting his chin to meet Daryl's eyes.

The boy was biting his lip, and Rick could tell every instinct was screaming at him to run. He wrapped his arms around Daryl again and pushed his head down on his shoulder. Daryl offered no resistance, hands remaining splayed against Rick's chest. "What d'ya mean, Daryl?" he repeated, his voice gentle.

"This isn't what was s'posed ta happen," Daryl mumbled against his neck, and he sounded so much younger than he was. He felt small in Rick's arms. "What're ya doin'?"

One of Daryl's hands crept up Rick's chest, pushing itself into the space between Daryl's lips and Rick's neck. He could feel them trembling slightly as he gently touched his lips. Maybe he was trying to convince himself that what had happened was real. Or, Rick thought uneasily, he was hoping that it hadn't been.

"Daryl," Rick started slowly. "I kissed you because. . ." He trailed off, steeling himself. "Because it's something I've wanted to do since I met you."

Daryl jerked like the words were a blow against him, and Rick tightened his arms around him protectively, automatically shushing him. "Why?" Daryl asked again, and he sounded so broken and confused and desperate for an explanation. Like the idea of someone wanting him was the most foreign thing in the world. Maybe it was.

Rick squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips to Daryl's messy hair, his fingers trailing down his spine to comfort him automatically. "Daryl, you're smart, and funny, and sweet, and not to mention drop-dead fuckin' gorgeous," Rick finished playfully, but it fell flat in the tense atmosphere of the room.

Still, Daryl gave a short, disbelieving laugh against this throat, and Rick smiled a little before continuing. "I was happy to just be your friend, Daryl, because bein' that was a hell of a lot better than not knowin' ya at all. I didn't want to ruin what we had. But the entire time, I wanted ta kiss you and—and just hold your damn hand, for Christ's sake. I jus' wanted _you, _Daryl."

He let his words sink in before continuing. "Findin' this out? Under _any _other circumstance, ya wouldn't be able to find a happier person than me. But Daryl, he hurt you 'cause of me, and, to be honest, I don't even know how you can stand ta be in the same room with me like you are right now. I may not know why, but you ain't runnin', so I think ya deserve to hear this." Daryl waited in perfect stillness, and Rick didn't think he was even breathing. "I think. . ." No, he didn't think. He _knew. _"Daryl, I'm in love with you."

Daryl sucked in a breath, and he pulled away from Rick quickly, wincing as the movement jarred his ribs. "What?"

Rick gently reached up to cup Daryl's face, rubbing his thumb over the corner of his lips. He nodded at him, and he let a little smile turn up his mouth. "It's been true for a long time. I'm in love with you, Daryl, and I'd do anything for ya. And if killin' the motherfucker who hurt ya didn't mean I'd never be able to see you again, I'd do it in a second."

There was a moment of tense silence before the tears that had never quite left Daryl's eyes spilled over his eyelids and dripped onto Rick's fingers, warm before the air cooled them. Daryl raised his arm, palm pressing against Rick's hand where it lay against his cheek, and closed his eyes. Rick wanted to kiss away the tears he could see trembling on his eyelashes.

"I came home," Daryl whispered after several minutes of tense silence, and Rick waited patiently for him to go on. "My old man. . . He wasn't supposed ta be home yet. But he ran outta money, and he went into this box I have." The image of the shattered box Rick had found on Daryl's bedroom floor flashed before his eyes, and he shook his head to clear it. Daryl didn't notice as he continued, eyes downcast. "I used ta keep money in there, but I been broke lately. I started puttin' them in there. The notes," he clarified. "He read 'em, and. . ."

Daryl swallowed thickly, and Rick started rubbing his back again when he sensed the hysteria rising up in him. "He told me I was yer bitch, that I got outta goin' ta juvie all those months ago 'cause I let you . . ." He paused, mouth twisted, seeming to chew on the words before going on. "'cause I let ya fuck me, or somethin'. Said I'd rather grab ankle than take it like a man."

Rick was stricken, but he stayed silent. His free hand left Daryl's back to brush stray strands of hair lovingly from his eyes, a silent encouragement to continue. As much as it hurt Rick to hear this, he knew Daryl needed to talk about it. He figured it was the best way to start coping with the trauma, the trauma Rick hadn't known the full extent of until tonight.

"I told 'im to go fuck himself, sayin' things like that 'bout ya," Daryl said, his voice rough with lingering rage at his father.

Rick looked up quickly, eyes wide at Daryl's admission. "Think that's what really set him off." Daryl utterly failed at nonchalance, sobs catching in his chest again as he no doubt remembered exactly what had happened to him because of what he'd said.

"Why? Why would you do that?" Rick whispered, because this was just a thousand times worse. Rick's involvement in what had happened to Daryl was growing the more he found out, and he was starting to wonder if Daryl'd be better off if they'd never met. Still, it'd led to Daryl getting the fuck away from the bastard who'd been doing this to him for years, and Rick supposed that sort of made up for it. "What he said didn't—doesn't—mean anything, Daryl. It wasn't worth that, riskin' yourself." _I'm not worth that, _he wanted to say, but he held his tongue.

Daryl's head remained bowed, fidgeting under Rick's concentrated gaze. "'cause ya'd never do anything like that. I did it 'cause you've only ever done right by me." Rick could've contradicted him, had a hundred things to say to do just that, but he just let Daryl say his piece. Daryl looked up at him then, and though he was still biting his lip anxiously, there was determination, a fierce protectiveness, in his eyes. An anger that Rick still felt he deserved to be directed at him. But Daryl was speaking again, his voice low and threatening. "And I'd do it again. 'cause you're a good man, Rick."

Rick felt tears prick at his eyes, gaze fixed on Daryl, finding that he'd already averted his gaze. But then, the boy's eyes darted up to look at him fervently under his lashes, shoulders hunched as he waited for Rick's reaction to his words. But Rick couldn't put Daryl's worries to rest, yet. Because his words were still resonating with him, still sinking in. They were every bit as good as _I love you. _

They were _better. _

Because they meant Daryl cared enough to stand up to his father for him, to defend him. To take whatever punishment was coming his way because he wouldn't let _anyone, _his abusive asshole father or not, talk badly about Rick. And, yet, he failed to see that those words were singularly the most beautiful thing Rick had ever heard. Rick doubted that even an infinite number of words would be able to explain it to him. He stared at Daryl, lost, before it occurred to him that maybe talking wasn't the way to enlighten him.

"Daryl," Rick breathed, leaning forward so that his face was mere inches from Daryl's, head automatically tilting sideways as he eyed the boy's lips. "Can I kiss you?"

Daryl froze, wide eyes flickering up to rest on Rick's face. He seemed startled at his proximity, and his eyes looked heavy with the tears clinging to his lashes. Rick ran his thumb over one eye, wiping the moisture away, feeling the kiss of his eyelashes as his eyes fluttered closed under his touch. He did the same to the other, and blue eyes reopened slowly when Rick's hand resettled at his cheek. Hesitantly, Daryl nodded, exhaling deeply, the warm air rushing from his lips tickling Rick's palm. Rick needed no further prompting to tilt Daryl's chin up and capture his lips for the second time that night. Daryl jerked back slightly when their lips connected, and Rick worried he'd changed his mind. But he was back in an instant, impossibly close, timid hands reaching up to wind in Rick's curly, messy hair. Bolstered, Rick's other hand went up to fully cradle Daryl's face, always careful of his injuries, pulling him in deeper.

And Rick found himself regretting that _this _wasn't their first kiss. It was just simple contact at first, clumsy and slow as Daryl tried to keep up with him. But when Rick ran his tongue along Daryl's bottom lip, the boy jumping a little before opening his mouth, it became fevered, hot. _Molten_. Daryl's kissing was sloppy and wet and inexperienced, but Rick absolutely fucking loved it. He quickly took the lead, careful to go no further than Daryl was willing. And when Daryl's tongue hesitantly touched his, they tangled together in the open space between them, Daryl gaining a bit of confidence as his tongue crept into Rick's mouth, tentatively deepening the kiss. His lips were chapped and rough from his constant licking and biting, but the calloused brush of them over Rick's sent little thrills of electricity running through him.

Rick's lungs were burning when he finally pulled away, unashamedly panting as he tried to fill his lungs with air that _wasn't _Daryl's. Daryl elected to breathe harshly through his nose, cheeks ruddy, his forehead coming down to rest on Rick's shoulder, kiss-heated lips warm against his collarbone.

"Rick," Daryl mumbled, Rick could feel the vibrations of his voice on his skin.

Rick shakily laid his cheek on top of Daryl's hair, squeezing his eyes shut as he gingerly pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around him. "What is it?" he whispered.

"I'm tired." It was more of a whimper than anything, and he suddenly sounded young again, Rick's heart breaking for him.

"C'mere," he said gently, lying back down in bed, shifting down so his head was lying fully on the pillow.

Daryl followed his lead carefully, always mindful of his broken ribs. He lay on his uninjured side, cheek resting on Rick's chest, hand flat against his abdomen. Rick knew from the hospital that he'd be more comfortable on his back, but he said nothing, just wrapped his arm around Daryl, tucking his face in his blonde hair. He'd just have to hope that the painkillers would hold out, allow him and Daryl to have this. He let his fingers play with the soft hair at the back of his neck, eyes transfixed by the way the soft strands slipped between the digits. It was only when he heard—no, _felt_—Daryl's dry sobs quiet that he let the warmth bleeding into him from the body tucked beside him to him lull him to sleep.

* * *

Daryl was warm when he woke up.

Warm, comfortable. Well-rested. It was all strange to him, something he'd never have expected to experience. But strangest of it all was that he wasn't afraid. He didn't open his eyes right away because he felt no looming threat of waking up to a backhand or a punch. And it took him a moment to remember why.

Because he was in Rick's room, in Rick's bed. Under Rick's arm.

Daryl's eyes snapped open as memories from last night came trickling back into his brain, penetrating the pleasant cotton wool stuffed in his head. And realization came to him far too quickly. The cuts on his stomach seemed to sear as he remembered Rick's discovery; the skin around his eyes felt swollen and stiff when he recalled last night's breakdown—the tears it'd wrought. And his chapped lips tingled when the ghost of Rick's kisses brushed across them. Daryl swallowed, tongue flicking out to wet his dry lips. And maybe to see if the taste of Rick's mouth was still there.

Rick was still sleeping, and Daryl could feel his nose and lips pressed against the top of his head. He didn't want to move or wake Rick up, but, now that his head was a bit clearer with only the concussion to contend with, the pain in his ribs was becoming more adamant. His mind supplied that he was due for another dose of painkillers, but he didn't even know where Rick kept them. And he was painfully aware of the consequences of waking someone up. He remembered the first time he'd done it, making the mistake of crying loudly enough to rouse his father from his drunken sleep. Daryl forced himself to keep his breathing even as he remembered the beating that ensued, the first his old man had ever dealt out to him. At least that he could remember.

But Daryl had woken Rick up every single night like a goddamn alarm with his nightmares these past few days, and the man's only reaction had been to sit at his bedside, hold his hand until he fell back asleep. Not once had even been _angry_, much less raised his fist to him, and Daryl felt a flash of guilt for even thinking that Rick would be _anything _like his father.

So, even though every instinct had him on edge, nerves alight with trepidation, Daryl gingerly turned over onto his back, head slipping off from where it lay on Rick's shoulder and onto his well-muscled upper arm. Rick's head fell back onto the pillow without Daryl as a support, and he immediately stirred, arm automatically tightening around Daryl's shoulders. Daryl wanted to look up at Rick, but he doubted his ribs or bruised throat would take too kindly to it. So his broken ribs and apprehension had him waiting with bated breath for the other shoe to drop.

"Mornin'," Rick mumbled sleepily, and Daryl wondered if he was even fully awake.

Daryl only grunted in response, face burning. He still wasn't entirely sure why Rick was even here. Daryl hadn't expected to wake up in his arms, even after everything he'd said. No one'd ever bothered to stick around before, and waking up with someone's arm around him was as shocking as it was pleasant. And the fact that it was _Rick _made a delicious heat press up against the walls of his stomach. He pushed it down quickly, though—forced it to a remote corner. He didn't expect this—any of this—to last.

He couldn't keep a little whimper of pain back when Rick shifted closer to him and jostled the bed, eyes screwing shut as agony flared through his side. Rick's body went taut beside him, and Daryl felt a hand tenderly touch his face, wiping away some of the sweat that had formed on his brow. His eyes fluttered open to meet concerned blue, Rick's face mere inches from his.

"You need your painkillers?" Rick asked lowly, fingers combing through Daryl's hair.

As more disjointed memories floated back to him, Daryl could remember falling asleep to the same sensation last night, and he gulped before nodding, head feeling light from his quick, shallow breaths his ribs forced him to take. Rick rubbed his thumb soothingly over Daryl's temple before he rolled away from him, gently easing his arm out from where it lay underneath Daryl's shoulders. He slid off the bed, the tight muscles of his back rolling as he reached up and stretched, already staggering off toward the door. Daryl's mouth went dry at the sight, and he forced himself to focus on the in and out of his breaths, ignoring how his heart was hammering in his chest.

Once Rick was out of sight, Daryl let himself wonder what the fuck was going on.

A confused fog swathed memories of last night, and Daryl was still wondering if he'd dreamt it all. None of it added up. Nothing made sense. Daryl's brow furrowed. Rick'd found out the truth, found out exactly what had made his father go off on him a week ago.

And Rick didn't hate him.

No, he didn't hate him. Fuck, he'd said he was _in love_ with him. Right after kissing him. Daryl's _first _kiss. He'd been so sweet and tender, nothing like how Merle would ravage the mouths of the girls he brought home, leave their lips bleeding and swollen. He didn't know it could be so pleasant, the mere memory of it making his stomach flutter. Daryl reached up to touch his lips. How he could ever be good enough to deserve Rick's mouth on his was lost on him.

"Hey," Rick said, pushing the door back open and slipping into the room, pills cradled in one of his hands and a glass of water in the other. He walked over and sat beside Daryl on the bed, holding out the painkillers.

Daryl numbly took them and popped them in his mouth, and his brain short-circuited when his fingers brushed against Rick's as he took the glass of water. The minute the cup was in his hand, pain jolted through his arm. Having taken off the brace, neither he nor Rick had realized that it was his sprained wrist. But Rick was quick to react, hand reaching out to snatch the glass before it could fall from Daryl's suddenly slack fingers. Daryl's eyes rose to rest on Rick's face, and it was painfully apologetic.

His gaze fell quickly, and he bit at his lip, raising his other, uninjured hand to take the glass. Rick held it firmly away, eyes gentle. "Let me," he said.

Daryl didn't have enough energy to protest even if he wanted to, and Rick put the cup to his lips. Daryl obediently opened his mouth, and Rick's hand angled the glass up slowly, letting some of the liquid dribble onto Daryl's tongue, just enough for him to swallow down the pills. He closed his eyes as he felt the little capsules slither down his dry throat, and he didn't think that they could work fast enough. The ache in his ribs was a constant, and being unable to take a full breath didn't help the way his mind was spinning from _everything _that had happened. And he'd be happy for the high it'd give him, especially because that thought in itself bothered the hell out of him. Daryl'd always endeavored to keep away from being reliant on these kinds of things, be it hydrocodone or LSD.

They sat there for several minutes, Daryl's teeth clenched until he finally began to feel the telltale haze of the drugs filter into his head, starting to wipe away any comprehension of pain that existed there. He breathed a sigh of relief when the ache in his side slowly faded, and he immediately filled his lungs with much-needed air.

"Daryl?" Rick intoned softly, tearing him out of his thoughts.

Daryl looked up at him quickly before his gaze flickered back down. He was still aware enough to think, and he didn't want that. He bit his lip, not replying to Rick's unfinished inquiry. He heard the man beside him sigh, getting to his feet.

"You need anything else?" Rick asked tiredly, running a hand through his hair.

Daryl shook his head slowly, squeezing his eyes shut at the resignation on the man's face. He only listened to Rick's feet pad across the carpet, the sound of the door opening as he left Daryl alone. Daryl considered for a moment calling him back, but he held back the urge. It wasn't fair to Rick to play with him like that.

Daryl scratched at his scalp absently, annoyed at how greasy it felt. He'd been sleeping for the majority of the past few days, and he knew that he was long overdue for a shower. And he couldn't deny that taking one in actual steaming hot water sounded nice right about now. He gingerly shifted his legs off the bed, rising up into a sitting position slowly. The drugs hadn't fully kicked in yet, and his side was in agony by the time he'd finally managed to sit at the edge of the bed. But that was the worst of it, and he pushed himself to his feet, curling his toes into Rick's carpet. Daryl swayed a bit on his feet, vision blurring, and he raised his uninjured hand to clutch at his head, trying to soothe its pounding. When he could see again, he wandered over to the full-body mirror leaning up haphazardly against the far wall of Rick's room.

Daryl hadn't really gotten a good look at himself since the beating, and he was suddenly glad. It was painful just to look at all the injuries littering his body—the bruises blackening his eyes, discoloring his sprained wrist, circling his throat. The gashes in his lip and above his eyebrow, courtesy of his father's fist. Daryl looked at his swollen and bruised lip, and he subconsciously bit into it, ignoring the pain that the motion wrought. He couldn't help but think of how Rick had kissed him, his chest tightening painfully as he stared at his reflection. How could he have not been disgusted by all _this_? By what his old man had carved into his stomach?

Daryl abruptly turned away from the mirror, eyes squeezed shut. He just wanted to shower, goddammit. He managed to remember where Rick's small bathroom was located, and he hoped that maybe he could sneak into it without alerting the other man. The door was right outside his bedroom, after all. While Daryl couldn't be as stealthy as usual with his cracked ribs, he was still a trained hunter.

He made his way over to the door and wrapped his hand around the cool metal of the doorknob, turning it slowly. He couldn't help but flinch when it squeaked loudly, but he pushed forward, pulling the door open slowly and slipping through the minimal space he allowed himself. But the way he twisted his torso sent pain wrenching through his side, and his shoulder collided heavily with the wall.

"Daryl?" he heard Rick call out from somewhere ahead. "You okay?"

Daryl swore under his breath. "Fine," he growled. "Jus' gonna take a shower."

He felt a small flush of panic when he detected the sound of Rick's footsteps coming toward him, and he quickly darted into the bathroom, any consideration for his ribs forgotten. He closed the door and locked it, and he could feel Rick's presence outside the room.

"Daryl."

And Daryl'd never heard his name spoken so tenderly. It made tears flood his eyes again, and he angrily blinked them back. "I'm jus' gonna take a shower," he repeated, and he hated how biting and rough the words were as they left his throat.

His hands fisted themselves in the hem of his tee-shirt as he prepared to pull it over his head, but, the minute he tried, he was gritting his teeth against the pained whimper that sounded from his throat as the movement jarred his ribs. But he persevered, little pants and grunts escaping his lips until the shirt was crumpled between his two hands, held in front of his chest.

"Daryl, please." It was a pained sound. Squeezing his eyes shut, Daryl refused to believe that he was the cause of Rick sounding like that.

"What d'ya want?" Daryl asked tiredly, just loud enough for Rick to hear, all the fight seeping out him.

"Just let me in," Rick pleaded, and Daryl heard the scratch of what must've been his watch against the wood of the door.

Daryl looked down at the shirt in his hands, and, for a moment, he considered putting it back on. No one had ever seen him shirtless, the imperfections riddling the hidden skin, and he wasn't sure if he wanted that to change. But he decided against it, because _this _was him—his body, his scars. His past. Rick deserved to know. Maybe then he'd see how fucked up it was for him to say that he was in love with Daryl, finally come to his senses and get the fuck away from him. He snorted quietly to himself at how much that possibility hurt to entertain.

Heaving a resigned sigh, Daryl turned and unlocked the door, leaving Rick to open it and step into the room. Daryl turned his back when he heard it creak open, because this was the worst of it. It showed everything that had been done to him, from the cigarettes pressed against his skin to the belt biting into his flesh.

He'd expected Rick to freeze, to feel his eyes burning into the scars littering the skin of his back. But there was none of that as he felt the man coming closer and closer until every instinct was screaming at Daryl to turn around before he took advantage of his blinded state. But he stayed where he was, because he'd given up. Rick could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

But then, Rick's warm hands were on his shoulders, one of the only places that hadn't been targeted by his father in his fit of rage. Rick trailed his fingers down Daryl's firmly muscled biceps, and he felt soft lips pressed against the junction of his neck and shoulder. Daryl shivered, subconsciously melting into Rick's body. He, too, was bare-chested, heated skin melding with Daryl's. Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, breath whistling harshly through his nose. His confusion spiraled in on itself, because, _Jesus, _what the fuck was going on? Rick'd seen everything, and he was still here. His hands, his _lips, _were still on Daryl, and, if he was being entirely honest with himself, that was exactly where Daryl wanted them. But that didn't change the fact that they were didn't make any sense. Because Rick was, well, _Rick, _and Daryl was just Daryl. A nobody—nothing.

"Why me?" Daryl mumbled, head hanging low.

He hadn't meant to say it. Sure, it was the question echoing in his head ever since he'd woken up, maybe even before that, but he hadn't meant to voice it. Daryl wished he could take it back as Rick stiffened against him, hands tightening slightly where they were curled around his biceps, mouth jerking away from where it rested against Daryl's skin.

"Why not you?" Rick asked, breath hot against Daryl's skin, already flushed from Rick's touch.

And Daryl could list a thousand reasons. Because he was a Dixon, for one. Because his father was an abusive asshole and his brother a druggie criminal, and who knew how different he was from them, anyway? Because he was scarred and flawed six ways from Sunday, and he had no idea how to even begin dealing with it.

Daryl opened his eyes when he felt Rick begin steering him forward, and maybe the man was a fucking mind reader, because he found himself standing in front of a goddamn mirror again, one of Rick's hands moving over to trace a thumb over the thick, ropy scar across his collarbone. Daryl's eyelashes fluttered at the contact, and his legs felt inexplicably weak underneath him. His eyes stared at him out from the bruised and swollen skin around them, and he chose rather to look at Rick where his face peered out from over Daryl's shoulder. His ice blue eyes were soft and breathtakingly liquid as they met his through the reflection, and his messy, unkempt, curly hair licked at his forehead. Daryl could feel as well as see where his nose was pressed up against Daryl's temple. He could feel the breaths from lips poised a mere inch or two away from Daryl's skin.

He found his gaze on Rick's thumb as it kept smoothing itself over his scars, transfixed by the rhythmic movement. He was vaguely aware that he was trembling under Rick's hands, but he was removed from it, like nothing was real except for what stared at him from within the mirror.

"You're so beautiful, Daryl," Rick whispered. He gingerly lifted Daryl's arm, trailing little butterfly kisses down the skin of the inside of his wrist, all the way up to the crook of his elbow. It took Daryl a minute to realize that each open-mouthed caress was placed on the little circular scars left by his father's cigarettes.

And, somewhere in his clouded brain, it occurred to Daryl that this was all a ruse. That maybe Rick just wanted a quick fuck. That this was all seduction or some twisted shit like his father had been prone to yelling at him after finding out the truth. But there was nothing _sexual _about the way Rick was kissing him. It felt like he was being healed, like the mere touch of his lips on the scars littering his body was extracting the pain so intricately imbued in them. And it wasn't salvation, or redemption, or whatever the fuck else. Rick had already done all that, from the day Daryl'd met him.

It was release. Liberation. _Deliverance. _

And then Rick's hands were gone, and he heard a whisper about not taking too long. Daryl's body was still buzzing and tingling with warmth, and only part of his mind registered the fact that he could hear water running, that steam was rising up to swathe his body in humid heat. His eyes went back to the mirror, quickly fogging up from the shower, and he didn't look at his scars or bruises. He didn't look at the word carved into his stomach, because, if he didn't think too much about it, he couldn't read words backwards.


End file.
